THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

California  State  Library 


P«fe  18| 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


THE 


DEAD   LETTER 


AN    AMERICAN    ROMANCE. 


BY    SEELKY    REGESTER. 


YORK: 

BEADLE    AND    COMPANY, 

118     WILLIAM  STREET. 
1867. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Con?™*.  In  the  je*r  19M,  by 

BEADLR    AND    COMPANY. 

In  the  Clerk'8  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  SUtM  for  th« 
Southern  District  of  Now  York. 


CONTENTS— PAKT  I. 


CHAPTER  I. 
THE  LETTER, 9 

CHAPTER  II. 
EVENTS  OF  A  NIGHT, 11 

CHAPTER  IH. 
THE  FIGURE  BENEATH  THE  TREES,  23 

CHAPTER  IV. 
MORELAND  VILLA, -          34 

CHAPTER  V. 
MR.  BURTON,  THE  DETECTIVE,  ....      49 

CHAPTER  VI. 
Two  LINKS  IN  THE  CHAIN,     ...        -          72 

CHAPTER  VII. 

ELEANOR, -       86 

CHAPTER  VHI. 
THE  HAUNTED  GRAVE,       ....          -     94 

CHAPTER  IX. 
THE  SPIDER  AND  THE  FLY,     -        -        -        -         114 

CHAPTER  X. 
THE  ANNIVERSARY, 132 

CHAPTER  XI. 
THE  LITTLE  GUEST  AND  THE  APPARITION,     -         154 

CHAPTER  XII. 
THE  NIGHT  IN  MORELAND  VILLA,     -        -        -     176 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
THE  SHADOW  ASSUMES  SHAPE,       -         -         -         188 


832734 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PART    II. 

CHAPTER  L 
THE  LETTER, 199 

CHAPTER  II. 
OUR  VISITS, 212 

CHAPTER  HI. 
THE  CONFESSION, 228 

CHAPTER  IV. 
EMBARKED  FOR  CALIFORNIA,  ....         243 

CHAPTER  V. 
ON  THE  TRAIL, 252 

CHAPTER  VI. 

AT  LAST — AT  LAST, 261 

CHAPTER  VH. 

Now  FOR  HOME  AGAIN, 278 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
THE  RIPE  HOUR, 383 

CHAPTER  IX. 
JOINING  THE  MISSING  LINKS,    -        -        -        -    290 

CHAPTER  X. 
THE  NEW  LIFE, -        305 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

BAFFLED, 04 

ELEANOR, 90 

"  WKI.I.,    HOW  DO  YOU  LOUS  MT  LOOKS?"             -  161 

THE  PORTRAIT— Frontispiece,  183 

IN  THE  OAK,      ...        %       ...  223 

"I   NEVER   ACCUSED  YOU,"         ....  297 


THE    DEAD    LETTER 



PART    I. 


THE    DEAD    LETTER. 


CHAPTER    I. 

THE   LETTER. 

I  PAUSED  suddenly  in  my  work.  Over  a  yeai%'s  experi- 
ence in  the  Dead  Letter  office  had  given  a  mechanical 
rapidity  to  my  movements  in  opening,  noting  and  clas- 
sifying the  contents  of  the  bundles  before  me  ;  and,  so 
far  from  there  being  any  thing  exciting  to  the  curiosity, 
or  interesting  to  the  mind,  in  the  employment,  it  was 
of  the  most  monotonous  character. 

Young  ladies  whose  love  letters  have  gone  astray, 
evil  men  whose  plans  have  been  confided  in  writing  to 
their  confederates,  may  feel  but  little  apprehension  of 
the  prying  eyes  of  the  Department ;  nothing  attracts 
it  but  objects  of  material  value — sentiment  is  below 
par ;  it  gives  attention  only  to  such  tangible  interests 
as  are  represented  by  bank-bills,  gold-pieces,  checks, 
jewelry,  miniatures,  et  cetera.  Occasionally  a  grave 
clei'k  smiles  sardonically  at  the  ridiculous  character  of 
some  of  the  articles  which  come  to  light ;  sometimes, 
perhaps,  looks  thoughtfully  at  a  withered  rosebud,  or 
bunch  of  pressed  violets,  a  homely  little  pin-cushion,  or 
a  book-mark,  wishing  it  had  reached  its  proper  destina- 
tion. I  can  not  answer  for  other  employees,  who  may 
not  have  even  this  amount  of  heart  and  imagination  to 
invest  in  the  dull  business  of  a  Government  office  ;  but 
when  I  was  in  the  Department  I  was  guilty,  at  inter- 
vals, of  such  folly — yet  I  passed  for  the  coldest,  most 
cynical  man  of  them  all. 

The  letter  which  1  held  in  ray  paralyzed  fingers  when 
they  so  abruptly  ceased  their  dexterous  movements, 
was  contained  in  a  closely-sealed  envelope,  yellowed  by 


10  DEAD   LETTER. 

time,  and  directed  in  a  peculiar  hand  to  "John  Owen, 
kill,  New  York,"  and  the  date  on  the  stamp  was 
"October  18th,  1857"  —  making  tin-  letter  tuo  years 
old.  I  know  not  what  mairnetism  paved  from  it, 
putting  me,  as  tin-  spirituaii-ts  -ay.  •  //  fifjmrt  with  it; 
I  hail  not  yet  cut  the  lappet  ;  ami  tin-  only  thing  I 
could  fix  upon  as  the  cause  of  my  attraction  was  that 
at  the  date  indicated  on  the  envelope,  I  had  l»een  a. 
resident  of  niankville,  twenty  miles  from  IVekskill  — 
and  something  about  that  date  ! 

this  was  1.  1)  excuse  for  my  agitation  ;  I  was  not 
of  an  inquisitive  disposition;  nor  did  ''John  <)\ven" 
belong  to  the  circle  of  my  acquaintance.  I  sat  there 
with  such  a  strange  expression  ujiou  my  lace,  tliat  ono 
of  my  fellows,  remark'niLf  my  mood,  exclaimed  jest  iii'_rly  : 
"What  is  it,  KedtiYM  ?  A  check  lor  a  hundred 

thoii<:. 

"I  am  sure  I  don't  know;  I  haven't  opened  it."  1 
answered,  at  random:  and  \\itli  this  I  cut  the  \\rapper, 
impelled  1  iy  some  strongly-defined,  irresistible  iidhienr.'  I  o 
read  ihe  time-stained  sheet  inclosed.  It  ran  in  this  \\  i^e  : 


—  It's  too  bad  to  disappoint  you.  ('mild 
.  r  order,  as  e\ei\l».d\  concerneil  will 
di»ci,\er.  \\'liat  a  charmiiii.'  day  I-  ^nod  lor  taking  :i 
]iicture.  That  old  friend  1  iutrodnee.l  \..M  to 
tell  talc*,  and  you  had  not  better  bother  youisi-lf  to 
vi^it  him.  The  next  time  you  find  \nur-elf  i'n  his  anus, 
don't  t'ccl  in  his  left-hand  pocket  lor  the  broken  tooth- 
pick which  I  lent  him.  lie  U  welcome  to  it.  If  you're 
at  the  place  of  pmneiit,  I  shan't  be  there,  not  ha\iii£ 
fulfilled  the  order,  and  having  LMVCII  up  m\  enii-iation 
project,  much  airain-t  my  will:  so,  ^"Nfi'ii  \oiir-e!f 
accordingly.  Sorry  your  p  pt"«r,  and 

M  ith  the  j.ri-  lbl«  •  -teem. 

\X  dl-appo'mted 


To  explain  why  this  brief  epistle,  neither  lucid  nor 
inteivMm;;  iu  it^-lf,  shoiil.l  all'ect  me  as  it  did.  I  must 
go  back  to  the  time  at  which  it  was  written. 


A    STOEM   COMING   UP.  11 


CHAPTER    II. 

EVENTS  OF  A  3TIGHT. 

IT  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  a  cloudy,  windy  au- 
tumn day,  that  I  left  the  office  of  John  Argyll,  Esq., 
in  his  company,  to  take  tea  and  spend  the  evening  in 
his  family.  I  was  a  law-student  in  the  office,  and  was 
favored  with  more  than  ordinary  kindness  by  him,  on 
account  of  a  friendship  that  had  existed  between  him 
and  my  deceased  father.  When  young  men,  they  had 
started  out  in  life  together,  in  equal  circumstances  ;  one 
had  died  early,  just  as  fortune  began  to  smile  ;  the  other 
lived  to  continue  in  well-earned  prosperity.  Mr.  Argyll 
had  never  ceased  to  take. an  interest  in  the  orphan  son 
of  his  friend.  He  had  aided  my  mother  in  giving  me 
a  collegiate  education,  and  had  taken  me  into  his  office 
to  complete  my  law  studies.  Although  I  did  not  board 
at  his  house,  I  was  almost  like  a  member  of  the  family. 
There  was  always  a  place  for  me  at  his  table,  with  lib- 
erty to  come  and  go  when  I  pleased.  This  being  Sat- 
urday, I  was  expected  to  go  home  with  him,  and  stay 
over  Sunday  if  I  liked. 

"We  quickened  our  steps  as  a  few  large  drops  were 
sprinkled  over  us  out  of  the  darkening  clouds. 

"  It  will  be  a  rainy  night,"  said  Mr.  Argyll. 

"  It  may  clear  away  yet,"  I  said,  looking  toward  a 
rift  in  the  west,  through  which  the  declining  sun  was 
pouring  a  silver  stream.  He  shook  his  head  doubtfully, 
and  we  hurried  up  the  steps  into  the  house,  to  escape 
the  threatened  drenching. 

Entering  the  pai'lors,  we  found  no  one  but  James,  a 
nephew  of  Mr.  Argyll,  a  young  man  of  about  my  own 
age,  lounging  upon  a  sofa. 


19  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

'•  Where  are  the  girls  ?" 

"They  haven't  descended  from  the  heavenly  regions 
yet,  uncle." 

"Dressing  themselves  to  death,  I  expect — it's  Satur- 
day evening,  1  remember,"  smiled  the  indulgent  father, 

_C  on  into  the  library. 

I   >at  down  by  the  west  window,  ami  looked  out  at 

the  coming  storm.     I  did  not  like  James  Argyll  much, 

nor    lie    me;    s«>    that,   as    much    as   we   were   thrown 

tar,   our   intercourse  continue, 1    constrained.      On 

this  occasion,   ho\\ever,  he  seemed  in  excellent  spirits, 

•tint:  in  talking  on  all  kinds  of  indifferent  subjects 

•••   of   my   l»rief   replies.     I    was  wondering  when 

r  \\ould  make  her  appearance. 

•ie  came.      I  heard  Jier  silk  dress  rustle  down 
ujion  her  when  she-  entered 

the  room.  She  was  dressed  with  unusual  care,  ami  her 
face  wore  a  brilliant,  expectant  smile.  The  smi;- 
for  neither  of  us.  Perhaps  James  thought  of  it  ;  I  am 
sure  I  did,  with  secret  suffering—  with  a  sharp  pantr, 
which  I  was  ashamed  of,  and  fought  inwardly  to 
conquer. 

She  spoke   plea-anllv   to  both  of  us.  but  \\ith  a  pie- 
oceiipied  ;iir  not  Haltering  t<>  our  vanity.      Too   r, 
to  sit.  she  paced  up  and  down  tin-  length  of  the  parlors, 
ing  to  radiate  light  as'she  walked,  like  M.nie  superb 
-so  lustrous  was  her  countenance  and  so  line  her 
costume.      Little  smiles  would   sparkle  about    her  lips, 
little  trills   of  song   break    forth,  as  if  she  were  uncon- 
scious of  observer^.      She  had  a  right  to  be  triad  ;  s),e 
appeared  to  exult  in  her  own  beauty  and  h:i|>p 

Presently  she  came  to  the  windou.  and  as  she  stood 
by  my  side,  a  burst  of  glory  streamed  through  the  fastr 
rlo-ing  clonds.  enveloping  her  in  a  golden  atmosphere, 
tinting  her  black  hair  with  purple,  tlu-hing  her  clear 
cheeks  and  the  pearls  about  her  throat.  The  fragrance 


VEXATION.  13 

of  the  rose  she  wore  on  her  breast  mingled  with  the 
light ;  for  a  moment  I  was  thrilled  and  overpowered  ; 
but  the  dark-blue  eyes  were  not  looking  on  me — they 
were  regarding  the  weather. 

"  How  provoking  that  it  should  rain  to-night,"  she 
said,  and  as  the  slight  cloud  of  vexation  swept  over 
her  face,  the  blackness  of  night  closed  over  the  gleam 
of  sunset,  so  suddenly  that  we  could  hardly  discern 
each  other. 

"  The  rain  will  not  keep  Moreland  away,"  I  answered. 

"  Of  course  not — but  I  don't  want  him  to  get  wet 
walking  up  from  the  depot ;  and  Billy  has  put  up  the 
carriage  in  view  of  the  storm." 

At  that  moment  a  wild  gust  of  wind  smote  the  house 
so  that  it  shook,  and  the  rain  came  down  with  a  roar 
that  was  deafening.  Eleanor  rung  for  lights. 

"  Tell  cook  to  be  sure  and  have  chocolate  for  supper 
— and  cream  for  the  peaches,"  she  said  to  the  servant 
who  came  in  to  light  the  gas. 

The  girl  smiled  ;  she  knew,  in  common  with  her  mis- 
tress, who  it  was  preferred  chocolate  and  liked  cream 
with  peaches ;  the  love  of  a  woman,  however  sublime 
in  some  of  its  qualities,  never  fails  in  the  tender  domes- 
tic instincts  which  delight  in  promoting  the  comfort 
and  personal  tastes  of  its  object. 

"  We  need  not  have  troubled  ourselves  to  wear  our 
new  dresses,"  pouted  Mary,  the  younger  sister,  who  had 
followed  Eleanor  down  stairs  •  "  there  will  be  nobody 
here  to-night." 

Both  James  and  myself  objected  to  being  dubbed 
nobody.  The  willful  young  beauty  said  all  the  gay 
things  she  pleased,  telling  us  she  certainly  should 
not  have  worn  her  blue  silks,  nor  puffed  her  hair  for 
us — 

"  — Nor  for  Henry  Moreland  either — he  never  looks  at 
me  after  the  first  miaute.  Engaged  people  are  So  stupid ! 


14  THI   DKAD   LETTER. 

I  wish  he  and  Eleanor  would  make  an  end  of  it.     If 
I'm  ever  going  to  be  bridemaid,  I  want  to  be — " 

"And  a  clear  field  afterward.  Miss  Molly,"  j 
her  cousin.     "X)omc!  play  that  new  polka  for  me." 

"  You  couldn't  hear  it  it'  I  did.  Tin-  rain  is  playing 
a  polka  this  evening,  and  tin-  wind  is  dancing  t<>  it." 

ll<-  laughed  loudly — more  loudly  than  the  idle  fancy 
warranted.  "Let  us  see  if  we  can  not  make  more 
noise  than  the  storm,"  he  said,  going  to  the  piano  and 
thumping  out  the  most  thunderous  piece  that  he  could 
recall.  I  was  not  a  musician,  but  it  seemed  to  mo 
there  were  more  discords  than  the  law  of  harmony 
allowed:  and  Mary  put  her  hands  over  her  ears,  and 
ran  away  to  the  end  of  the  room. 

For  the  next  half-hour  the  rain  came  down  in  wide 
sheets,  flapping  against  the  windows,  as  the  wind  blew 
it  hither  and  thither.  .lames  continued  at  the  piano, 
and  Kleanor  moved  restlessly  about,  stealing  glances, 
now  and  then,  at  her  tiny  watch. 

All  at  once  there  occurred  one  of  those  pauses  which 
precede  the  fresh  outbreaking  of  a  storm  ;  a^  it'  startled 
by  the  sudden  lull,  .Fames  Argyll  paused  in  his  playing; 
just  then  the  shrill  whistle  of  the  locomotive  j 
the  silence  with  more  than  usual  power,  as  the  evening 
train  swept  around  the  eiir\ c  of  the  hill  not  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  away,  and  rushed  on  into  the  depot  in  the 
lou,  r  part  of  the  village. 

Then-  is  something  unearthly  in  the  scream  of  the 
"steam-eagle,"  especially  when  heard  at  night.  Ho 
like  a  sentient  thin^,  with  a  will  of  his  own,  un- 
bending and  irresistible;  and  his  cry  ia  threatening 
and  defiant.  This  night  it  rose  upon  the  storm  pro- 
longed and  doleful. 

I  know  not  how  it  sounded  to  the  others,  but  to  me, 
whose  imagination  was  already  wrought  upon  by  the 
tempest  and  by  the  presence  of  the  woman  I  hopelessly 


A   HOPELESS   LOVE.  15 

loved,  it  came  with  an  effect  perfectly  overwhelming ; 
it  filled  the  air,  even  the  perfumed,  lighted  air  of  the 
parlor,  full  of  a  dismal  wail.  It  threatened — I  know 
not  what.  It  warned  against  some  strange,  unseen 
disaster.  Then  it  sunk  into  a  hopeless  cry,  so  full  of 
mortal  anguish,  that  I  involuntarily  put  my  fingers  to 
my  ears.  Perhaps  James  felt  something  of  the  same 
thing,  for  he  started  from  the  piano-stool,  walked  twice 
or  thrice  across  the  floor,  then  flung  himself  again  upon 
the  sofa,  and  for  a  long  time  sat  with  his  eyes  shaded, 
neither  speaking  nor  stirring. 

Eleanor,  with  maiden  artifice,  took  up  a  book,  and 
composed  herself  to  pretend  to  read  ;  she  would  not 
have  her  lover  to  know  that  she  had  been  so  restless 
while  awaiting  his  coming.  Only  Mary  fluttered  about 
like  a  humming-bird,  diving  into  the  sweets  of  things, 
the  music,  the  flowers,  whatever  had  honey  in  it ;  and 
teasing  me  in  the  intervals. 

I  have  said  that  I  loved  Eleanor.  I  did,  secretly,  in 
silence  and  regret,  against  my  judgment  and  will,  and 
because  I  could  not  help  it.  I  Avas  quite  certain  that 
James  loved  her  also,  and  I  felt  sorry  for  him  ;  sympa- 
thy was  taught  me  by  my  own  sufferings,  though  I  had 
never  felt  attracted  toward  his  character.  He  seemed 
to  me  to  be  rather  sullen  in  temper,  as  well  as  selfish; 
and  then  again  I  reproached  myself  for  uncharitable- 
ness  ;  it  might  have  been  his  circumstances  which 
rendered  him  morose — he  was  dependent  upon  his 
uncle — and  his  uuhappiness  which  made  him  appear 
unamiable. 

I  loved,  without  a  particle  of  hope.  Eleanor  was 
engaged  to  a  young  gentleman  in  every  way  worthy  of 
her  :  of  fine  demean^,  high  social  position,  and  un- 
blemished moral  character.  As  much  as  her  many 
admirers  may  have  envied  Henry  Moreland,  they  could 
not  dislike  him.  To  see  the  young  couple  together 


16  THE    DEAD    LETTER. 

was  to  feel  that  theirs  would  be  one  of  those  "  matches 
made  in  heaven  " — in  age,  character,  worldly  circum- 
stances, beauty  and  cultivation,  there  was  a  rare  corre- 
spondence. 

Mr.  Moreland  was  engaged  with  his  father  in  a  bank- 
ing business  in  the  city  of  Xew  York.  They  owned 
a  summer  villa  in  Blankville,  and  it  had  been  during 
his  week  of  summer  idleness  here  that  he  had  made 
the  :ic«|uaintance  of  Klcanor  Argyll. 

At  this  season  of  the  year  his  business  kept  him  in 
the  city;  but  he  was  in  the  habit  of  coming  out  every 
Saturday  afternoon  and  spending  Sabbath  at  the  house 
«.f  Mr.  Argyll,  the  marriage  which  was  to  terminate  a 
betrothal  of  nearly  two  years  bein^i  now  not  very  far 
away.  On  her  nineteenth  birthday,  which  came  in 
iber,  Klcanor  was  to  be  married. 

Another  half-hour  passed  away  and  the  e\| 
guest  did  not  arrhe.  He  usually  reached  the  h<>u-e  in 
fifteen  minutes  after  the  arrival  of  the  train  ;  I  could 
see  that  his  betrothed  was  playing  nervously  with  her 
watch-chain,  though  she  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  her 
book. 

*'Come,  let  us  have  tea;  I  am  hungry."  said  .Mr. 
Argyll,  coming  out  of  the  library.  u  I  had  a  long  ride 
dinner.  No  use  waiting,  Klcanor — he  won't  be 
here  to-night" — he  pinched  her  check  to  c\piv-s  his 
sympathy  f«>r  her  disappointment  — "  a  little  slmwer 
didn't  use  to  keep  l>eaux  away  when  I  was  a  boy." 

"A  little  rain,  papa!  I  never  heard  such  a  torrent 
before;  besides,  it  wtis  not  the  storm,  of  course,  f..r  he 
would  have  already  taken  the  cars  bet'.. re  it  commenced." 

"To  be  sure!  to  be  sure!  defend  your  sweetheart, 
Klla — that's  right!  ifut  it  n%y  have  been  raining 
down  there  half  the  day — the  storm  comes  from  that 
direction.  James,  are  you  asleep  ?" 

I'll  toon  tee,"  cried  Mary,  pulling  away  the  hand 


NO   LETTEK.  17 

from  her  cousin's  face — "  why,   James,   what  is   the 
matter  ?" 

Her  question  caused  us  all  to  look  at  him ;  his  face 
was  of  an  ashy  paleness  ;  his  eyes  burning  like  coals  of 
fire. 

"  Nothing  is  the  matter !  I've  been  half  asleep," 
he  answered,  laughing,  and  springing  to  his  feet. 
"  Molly,  shall  I  have  the  honor  ?" — she  took  his  offered 
arm,  and  we  went  in  to  tea. 

The  sight  of  the  well-ordered  table,  at  the  head  of 
which  Eleanor  presided,  the  silver,  the  lights,  the  odor 
of  the  chocolate  overpowering  the  fainter  fragrance 
the  tea,  was  enough  to  banish  thoughts  of  the  tern 
raging  without,  saving  just  enough  consciousness  of  it 
to  enhance  the  enjoyment  of  the  luxury  within. 

Even  Eleanor  could  not  be  cold  to  the  warmth  and 
comfort  of  the  hour  ;  the  tears,  which  at  first  she  could 
hardly  keep  out  of  her  proud  blue  eyes,  went  back  to 
their  sources  ;  she  made  an  effort  to  be  gay,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  being  very  charming.  I  think  she  still  hoped 
he  had  been  delayed  at  the  village;  and  that  there 
would  be  a  note  for  her  at  the  post-office,  explaining 
his  absence. 

For  once,  the  usually  kind,  considerate  girl  was  self- 
ish. Severe  as  was  the  storm,  she  insisted  upon  send- 
ing a  servant  to  the  office ;  she  could  not  be  kept  in 
suspense  until  Monday. 

She  would  hardly  believe  his  statement,  upon  his  re- 
turn, that  the  mail  had  been  changed,  and  there  was 
really  no  message  whatever. 

We  went  back  to  the  parlor  and  passed  a  merry 
evening. 

A  touch  of  chagrin,  a  fear  that  we  should  suspect 
how  deeply  she  was  disappointed,  caused  Eleanor  to 
appear  in  unusually  high  spirits.  She  sung  whatever  I 
asked  of  her ;  she  played  some  delicious  music ;  she 


18  Till:    DEAD   LETTER. 

parried  the  wit  of  others  with  keener  and  brighter  rep- 
artee ;  the  roses  bloomed  on  her  cheeks,  the  stare  rose 
in  her  eyes.  It  was  not  an  altogether  happy  excite- 
ment ;  I  knew  that  pride  and  lorn-lines*  were  at  the  bot- 
tom of  it ;  but  it  made  her  brilliantly  beautiful.  I 
wondered  what  Moreland  would  feel  to  see  her  so 
lovely — I  almost  regretted  that  he  \vas  not  there. 
James,  too,  was  in  an  exultant  mood. 
It  was  late  when  we  retired.  I  was  in  a  state  of 
mental  activity  which  kept  me  awake  for  hours  after. 
I  never  heard  it  rain  as  it  did  that  night — the  water 
to  come  down  in  solid  ina^-i •>  —  ami,  occasion- 
ly, the  wind  shook  the  strong  mansion  as  if  it  wen-  :i 
child.  I  could  not  sleep.  There  was  something  awful 
in  'he  storm.  If  I  had  had  a  touch  of  superstition 
vbout  me,  I  should  have  said  that  spirits  were  abroad. 
A  healthy  man,  of  a  somewhat  vivid  imagination, 
but  without  nervousness,  unknowing  bodily  fear,  I  was 
still  affected  strangely.  I  shuddered  in  my  soft  bed  ; 
the  wild  shriek  of  the  locomotive  lingered  in  my  ears; 
something  beside*  rain  seemed  bmtuxj  <it  the  windows. 
Ah,  my  God!  I  kne\v  :ifti-rward  what  it  was.  It  was 
a  human  s,.ul,  disembodied,  lin^erinir  about  the  place  on 
earth  must  dear  to  it.  The  rest  of  the  household  slept 
well,  so  far  as  I  could  judge,  by  its  silence  and  deep 
ose. 

Toward  morning  I  fell  asleep ;  when  I  awoke  the 
rain  was  over  ;  the  sun  shone  brightly  ;  the  ground  was 
covered  with  gay  autumn  leaves  shaken  down  by  the 
wind  and  rain ;  the  day  promised  well.  I  shook  off 
the  impressions  of  the  darkness,  dressed  myself  quickly, 
for  the  breakfast-bell  rung,  and  descend inir,  joined  the 
family  of  my  host  at  the  table.  In  (lie  midst  of  our 
cheerful  repast,  the  door-bell  rung.  Eleanor  started  ; 
the  thought  that  her  lover  might  have  stayed  at  tho 
hotel  adjoining  the  depot  on  account  of  tin-  rain,  mu-t 


THE   AXXOUNCEMEJO1.  19 

have  crossed  her  mind,  for  a  rapid  blush  rose  to  her 
cheeks,  and  she  involuntarily  put  up  a  hand  to  the  dark 
braids  of  her  hair  as  if  to  give  them  a  more  graceful 
touch.  The  servant  came  in,  saying  that  a  man  at  the 
door  wished  to  speak  with  Mr.  Argyll  and  Mr.  Redfield. 

"  He  says  it's  important,  and  can't  wait,  sir." 

We  arose  and  went  out  into  the  hall,  closing  the  door 
of  the  breakfast-room  behind  us. 

"  I'm  very  sorry — I've  got  bad  news — I  hope  you 
won't" — stammered  the  messenger,  a  servant  from  the 
hotel. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  demanded  Mr.  Argyll. 

"  The  young  gentleman  that  comes  here — Morelan 
his  name,  I  believe — was  found  dead  on  the  road  t 
morning." 

"Dead!" 

"They   want   you  to   come   down   to   the  inqu 
They've  got  him  in  a  room  of  our  house.     They  think 
it's  a  fit — there's  no  marks  of  any  thing." 

The  father  and  I  looked  at  each  other ;  the  lips  of 
both  were  quivering  ;  we  both  thought  of  Eleanor. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Argyll.  I  haven't  had  time  to 
think." 

"  I  can  not — I  can  not — " 

"  Nor  I — not  just  yet. '  Sarah,  tell  the  young  ladies 
we  have  gone  out  a  short  time  on  business — and  don't 
you  breathe  what  you  have  heard.  Don't  let  any  one 
in  until  we  return — don't  allow  any  one  to  see  Miss 
Eleanor.  Be  prudent." 

Her  frightened  face  did  not  promise  much  for  her 
discretion. 

Hastening  to  the  hotel,  already  surrounded  by  many 
people,  we  found  the  distressing  message  too  true. 
Upon  a  lounge,  in  a  private  sitting-room,  lay  the  body 
of  Henry  Moreland !  The  coroner  and  a  couple  of 


20  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

physicians  ha«l  already  arrived.  It  was  their  opinion 
that  he  had  diet!  from  natural  causes,  as  there  was  not 
the  least  evidence  of  violence  to  IK-  seen.  The  face  was 
as  pleasant  as  in  sluinln-i- ;  we  could  hardly  believe  him 
tload  until  wu  touched  the  icy  forehead,  about  which 
tin-  thick  ringlets  of  brown  hair  clung,  saturated  with 
rain. 

••  What's  this?"  exclaimed  one,  as  we  began  to  re- 
lieve the  corpse  of  its  wet  garments,  for  the  purpose  of 
a  further  examination.  It  was  a  stab  in  the  hack.  Not 
a  drop  of  blood — only  a  small  triangular  hole  in  the 
k,  through  the  other  clothing,  intu  the  body.  The 
tigstioo  soon  revealed  the  nature  of  the  dcath- 
;  it  had  bi-en  <_riven  by  a  line,  sharp  dirk  or  M'I- 
,to.  So  firm  and  forcible  had  been  the  blow  that  it 
pierced  the  Inn^  and  struck  the  rib  with  sutlicicnt 
to  break  the  blade  of  the  weapon,  about  thrce- 
rtcrs  of  an  inch  of  the  point  of  which  was  found  in 
the  wound.  Death  must  haxcbccn  instantaneous.  The 
victim  had  fallen  forward  upon  his  lace,  bleeding  in- 
wardly, which  accounted  for  no  blond  having  been  at 
tir-t  pi-rcei\cd  ;  and  as  he  had  fallen,  so  he  had  lain 
through  all  the  drenching  >torm  of  that  miserable  night. 
When  discovered  by  the  lii>t  pa--cr-by.  alter  daylight, 
lie  uas  lv'ni'4  on  the  path,  by  the  side  of  the  street, 
which  led  up  in  the  direction  of  Mr.  Argyll's,  his  trav- 
eling-bag bv  his  side,  hi-  face  to  the  ground.  The  bag 
WH8  not  touched,  neither  the  watch  and  money  on  his 
person,  making  it  evident  that  robbery  \\as  not  the  ob- 
ject of  the  murderer. 

A  Stab  in  the  back,  in  the  double  darkness  <>f  night 
and  storm  !  What  enemy  had  Henry  Morclaiid.  to  do 
this  deed  upon  him  ? 

It  is  useless  HOW  to  repeat  all  the  var\  MIL:  conjectures 
in  our  minds,  or    which  continued  to  engross  tin- 
entire  comimmity  for  weeks  then-after.     It  became  at 


A    PAINFUL    DUTY.  21 

once  the  favorite  theory  of  many  that  young  Moreland 
had  perished  by  a  stroke  intended  for  some  other  per- 
son. In  the  mean  time,  the  news  swept  through  the 
village  like  a  whirlwind,  destroying  the  calmness  of 
that  Sabbath  morning,  tossing  the  minds  of  people  more 
fearfully  than  the  material  tempest  had  tossed  the  frail 
leaves.  Murder  !  and^such  a  murder  in  such  a  place  ! — 
not  twenty  rods  from  the  busiest  haunts  of  men,  on  a 
peaceful  street — sudden,  sure,  unprovoked !  People 
looked  behind  them  as  they  walked,  hearing  the  assas- 
sin's step  in  every  rustle  of  the  breeze.  Murder  ! — the 
far-away,  frightful  idea  had  suddenly  assumed  a  real 
shape — it  seemed  to  have  stalked  through  the  town, 
entering  each  dwelling,  standing  by  every  hearth-stone. 

While  the  inquest  was  proceeding,  Mr.  Argyll  and 
myself  were  thinking  more  of  Eleanor  than  of  her  mur- 
dered lover. 

"  This  is  wretched  business,  Richard,"  said  the  father. 
"  I  am  so  unnerved  I  can  do  nothing.  Will  you  tele- 
graph to  his  parents  for  me  ?" 

His  parents — here  was  more  misery.  I  had  not 
thought  of  them.  I  wrote  out  the  dreadful  message 
which  it  ought  to  have  melted  the  wires  with  pity  to 
carry. 

"  And  now  you  must  go  to  Eleanor.  She  must  not 
hear  it  from  strangers ;  and  I  can  not — Richard  ! — you 
will  tell  her,  will  you  not  ?  I  will  follow  you  home 
immediately ;  as  soon  as  I  have  made  arrangements 
to  have  poor  Henry  brought  to  our  house  when  the  in- 
quest is  over." 

He  wrung  my  hand,  looking  at  me  so  beseechingly, 
that,  loth  as  I  was,  I  had  no  thought  of  refusing.  I 
felt  like  one  walking  with  frozen  feet  as  I  passed  out 
of  the  chamber  of  horror  into  the  peaceful  sunlight, 
along  the  very  path  he  had  last  trodden,  and  over  the 
spot  where  he  had  fallen  and  had  lain  so  many  hours 


22  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

undiscovered,  around  which  a  crowd  was  pressing,  dis- 
turbcd,  excited,  but  not  noisy.  Tlie  s.-mdy  soil  had 
already  filtered  the  rain,  FO  as  to  be  nearly  dry;  there 
w.i<  nothing  to  give  a  clue  to  the  murderer's  footsteps 
whither  he  went  or  whence  he  came — what  impn« 
they  illicit  have  made  in  the  hard,  gravelly  walk  had 
been  washed  out  by  the  storm.  A  few  persons  were 
'•ling  carefully  for  the  weapon  which  had  been  the 
instrument  of  death,  and  which  had  been  broken  in  the 
wound,  thinking  it  might  have  been  cast  away  in  the 
vicinity. 


THE    OLD    MANSION.  23 


CHAPTER    III. 

THE   FIGURE   BENEATH   THE   TREES. 

As  I  came  near  the  old  Argyll  mansion,  it  seemed  to 
me  never  to  have  looked  so  fair  before.  The  place  was 
the  embodiment  of  calm  prosperity.  Stately  and  spa- 
cious it  rose  from  the  lawn  in  the  midst  of  great  old 
oaks  \yhose  trunks  must  have  hardened  through  a  cen- 
tury of  growth,  and  whose  red  leaves,  slowly  dropping, 
now  flamed  in  the  sunshine.  Although  the  growing 
village  had  stretched  up  to  and  encircled  the  grounds, 
it  had  still  the  air  of  a  country  place,  for  th6  lawn  was 
roomy  and  the  gardens  were  extensive.  The  house  was 
built  of  stone,  in  a  massive  yet  graceful  style;  with 
such  sunshiny  windows  and  pleasant  porticoes  that  it 
had  nothing  of  a  somber  look. 

It  is  strange  what  opposite  emotions  will  group 
themselves  in  the  soul  at  the  same  moment.  The  sight 
of  those  lordly  trees  called  up  the  exquisite  picture  of 
Tennyson's  "  Talking  Oak"  : 

"  Oh,  muffle  round  thy  knees  with  fern, 

And  shadow  Sumner-chace ! 
Long  may  thy  topmost  branch  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place  !" 

I  wondered  if  Henry  had  not  repeated  them,  as  he 
walked  with  Eleanor  amid  the  golden  light  and  flicker- 
ing shadows  beneath  the  branches  of  these  trees.  I.  re- 
called how  I  once,  in  my  madness,  before  I  knew  that 
she  was  betrothed  to  another,  had  apostrophized  the 
monarch  of  them  all,  in  the  passionate  words  of  Walter. 
Now,  looking  at  this  ancient  tree,  I  perceived  with  my 
eyes,  though  hardly  with  my  mind,  that  it  had  some 
fresh  excoriations  upon  the  bark.  If  I  thought  any 
thing  at  all  about  it,  I  thought  it  the  work  of  the  storm, 


24  THK   DEAD  LETTER. 

for  numerous  branches  had  been  torn  from  the  trees 
throughout  the  grove,  and  the  ground   was  car] 
with  fresh-fallen  leaxes. 

Passing  up  the  walk,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Eleanor 
at  an  upper  window,  and  heard  her  singing  a  hymn, 
softly  to  herself,  as  she  moved  about  her  chamber.  I 
stopped  as  if  struck  a  blow.  How  could  I  force  my- 
self to  drop  the  pall  over  this  glorious  morning  ?  Alas ! 
of  all  the  homes  in  that  village,  perhaps  this  was  the 
only  one  on  which  the  shadow  had  not  yet  fallen — 
this,  over  which  it  was  to  settle,  to  l.e  lifted  never- 
more. 

Of  all  the  hearts  as  yet  unstartled  by  the  tragic  « 
was  that  most  certain  to  be  withered — that  young  heart, 
this  moment  so  full  of  love  and  bliss,  caroling  hymns 
out  of  the  fullness  of  its  gratitude  to  God  for  its  own 
delicious  happiness. 

Oh,  I  must — I  must !  I  went  in  at  an  open  window, 
from  a  portico  into  the  library.  James  was  tin-re, 
dressed  for  church,  1 1 is  prayer-lunik  and  handkerchief 
on  the  table,  ami  lie  looking  over  the  la>t  c\  ci.it: 

The  sight  of  him  gave  me  a  slight  relief;  his 
uncle  ami  myself  had  forgotten  him  in  Uie  mi.lst  of 
our  distress.  It  was  bad  enough  to  have  to  tell  any 
One  such  news,  1  nit  any  delay  in  meet  ing  Kleanor  was 
eagerly  welcomed.  He  looked  at  me  inquiringly — ray 
manner  was  enough  to  denote  that  something  had 
wrong. 

-What  is  it,  Richard?" 

"  Horrible — most  horrible  !" 

"  For  heaven'*  sake,  what  is  the  matter  ?" 
i  eland  has  been  murdered." 

"Mordand!  What?  Where?  Whom  do  they 
suspect  ?" 

-  And  her  father  wishes  me  to  tell  Kleanor.  You  are 
her  cousin,  James ;  will  you  not  be  the  fittest  |..-t>on  ?" 


ELEANOB.  25 

the  hope  crossing  me  that  he  would  undertake  the  de- 
livery of  the  message. 

"  IT  he  exclaimed,  leaning  against  the  case  of  books 
beside  him.  "  I !  oh,  no,  not  I.  I'd  be  the  last  person ! 
I'd  look  well  telling  her  about  it,  wouldn't  I  ?"  and  he 
half  laughed,  though  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

If  I  thought  his  manner  strange,  I  did  not  wonder 
at  it — the  dreadful  nature  of  the  shock  had  unnerved 
all  of  us. 

"  Where  is  Mary  ?"  I  asked ;  "  we  had  better  tell  her 
first,  and  have  her  present.  Indeed,  I  wish — " 

I  had  turned  toward  the  door,  which  opened  into  the 
hall,  to  search  for  the  younger  sister,  as  I  spoke  ;  the 
words  died  on  my  lips.  Eleanor  was  standing  there. 
She  had  been  coming  in  to  get  a  book,  and  had  evi- 
dently heard  what  had  passed.  She  was  as  white  as 
the  morning  dress  she  wore. 

"  Where  is  he  ?"     Her  voice  sounded  almost  natural. 

"  At  the  Eagle  Hotel,"  I  answered,  without  reflec- 
tion, glad  that  she  showed  such  self-command,  and, 
since  she  did,  glad  also  that  the  terrible  communication 
was  over. 

She  turned  and  ran  through  the  hall,  down  the  avenue 
toward  the  gate.  In  her  thin  slippers,  her  hair  uncov- 
ered, fleet  as  a  vision  of  the  wind,  she  fled.  I  sprung 
after  her.  It  would  not  do  to  allow  her  to  shock  her- 
self with  that  sudden,  awful  sight.  As  she  rushed  out 
upon  the  street  I  caught  her  by  the  arm. 

"  Let  me  go  !  I  must  go  to  him !  Don't  you  see,  he 
will  need  me  ?" 

She  made  an  effort  to  break  away,  looking  down  the 
street  with  strained  eyes.  Poor  child !  as  if,  he  being 
dead,  she  could  do  him  any  good !  Her  stunned  heart 
had  as  yet  gone  no  further  than  that  if  Henry  was  hurt, 
was  murdered,  he  would  need  her  by  his  side.  She 
must  eo  to  him  and  comfort  him  in  his  calamity.  It 
2 


26  THB   DEAD  LETTER. 

was  yet  to  teach  her  that  this  world  and  the  things  of 
this  world— even  she,  herself,  were  no  more  to  him. 

"  Come  back,  Eleanor ;  they  will  bring  him  to  you 
before  long." 

I  had  to  lift  her  in  my  arms  and  carry  her  back  to 
the  house. 

In  the  hall  we  met  Mary,  who  had  heard  the  story 
from  James,  and  who  burst  into  tears  and  sobs  as  she 
Baw  her  sister. 

"  They  are  keeping  me  away  from  him,"  said  Elea- 
nor, pitifully,  looking  at  her.  I  felt  her  form  relax  in 
my  arms,  saw  that  she  had  fainted ;  James  :m«l  1  car- 
ried her  to  a  sofa,  while  Mary  ran  distractedly  for  the 
housekeeper. 

There  was  noisy  wailing  now  in  the  mansion ;  the 
servants  all  admired  and  liked  the  young  gentleman  to 
whom  their  mistress  was  to  be  manicd  ;  atul,  as  usual, 
they  gave  full  scope  to  their  powers  of  expressing  ter- 
ror and  sympathy.  In  the  midst  of  cries  and  tears,  the 
insensible  girl  was  conveyed  to  her  chamber. 

James  and  myself  paced  the  long  halls  and  porticoes, 
waiting  to  hear  tidings  of  her  recovery.  After  a  time 
the  housekeeper  came  down,  informing  us  that  Miss 
Argyll  had  come  to  her  senses;  Ka-t \\ix-,  cnouurli  to 
open  her  eyes  and  look  about;  but  she  wouldn't  speak, 
and  she  looked  dreadful. 

Just  then  .Mr.  Argyll  came  in.  After  liriiiLT  inform.'. 1 
of  what  had  occurred,  he  went  up  to  his  daughter's 
room.  With  uttermost  tenderness  he  gave  her  the  do- 
tails  of  the  murder,  as  they  were  known  ;  his  eyes  over- 
running with  tears  to  see  that  not  a  drop  of  moi 
softened  her  fixed,  unnatural  look. 

Friends  came  in  and  went  out  with  no  notice  from  her. 

"I  wish  they  would  all  leave  me  but  you.  .Mary," 
•he  said,  after  a  time.  «•  Father,  you  will  let  me  know 


WHO   WAS    SHE?  27 

"  Yes — yes."  He  kissed  her,  and  she  was  left  with 
her  sister  for  a  watcher. 

Hours  passed.  Some  of  us  went  into  the  dining- 
room  and  drank  of  the  strong  tea  which  the  house- 
keeper had  prepared,  for  we  felt  weak  and  unnerved. 
The  parents  were  expected  in  the  evening  train,  there 
being  but  one  train  running  on  Sunday.  The  shadow 
deepened  over  the  house  from  hour  to  hour. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  before  the  body  could  be 
removed  from  the  hotel  where  the  coroner's  inquest  was 
held.  I  asked  James  to  go  with  me  and  attend  upon 
its  conveyance  to  Mr.  Argyll's.  He  declined,  upon  the 
plea  of  being  too  much  unstrung  to  go  out. 

As  the  sad  procession  reached  the  garden  in  front  of 
the  mansion  with  its  burden,  I  observed,  in  the  midst 
of  several  who  had  gathered  about,  a  woman,  whose 
face,  even  in  that  time  of  preoccupation,  arrested  my 
attention.  It  was  that  of  a  girl,  young  and  handsome, 
though  now  thin  and  deadly  pale,  with  a  wild  look  in 
her  black  eyes,  which  were  fixed  upon  the  shrouded 
burden  with  more  than  awe  and  curiosity. 

.  I  know  not  yet  why  I  remarked  her  so  particularly; 
why  her  strange  face  made  such  an  impression  on  me. 
Once  she  started  toward  us,  and  then  shrunk  back  again. 
By  her  dress  and  general  appearance  she  might  have 
been  a  shop-girl.  I  had  never  seen  her  before. 

"  That  girl,"  said  a  gentleman  by  my  side,  "  acts 
queerly.  And,  come  to  think,  she  was  on  the  train  from 
New  York  yesterday  afternoon.  Not  the  one  poor 
Moreland  came  in ;  the  one  before.  I  was  on  board 
myself,  and  noticed  her  particularly,  as  she  sat  facing 
me.  She  seemed  to  have  some  trouble  on  her  mind." 

I  seldom  forget  faces  ;  and  I  never  forgot  hers. 

"  I  will  trace  her  out,"  was  my  mental  resolve. 

We  passed  on  into  the  house,  and  deposited  our 
charge  in  the  back  parlor.  I  thought  of  Eleanor,  as 


28  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

she  had  walked  this  room  just  twenty-four  hours  ago, 
a  brilliant  vision  of  love  and  triumphant  beauty.  A\  ! 
twenty-four  hours  ago  this  clay  before  me  \\a> 
splendent  with  life,  as  eager,  a>  plowing  with  the  hope 
of  the  soul  within  it !  Now,  all  the  hours  of  time  would 
never  restore  the  tenant  to  his  tenement.  Who  had 
dared  to  take  upon  himself  the  responsibility  of  unlaw- 
fully and  with  violence,  ejecting  this  human  soul  from 
its  house  ? 

I  shuddered  as  I  asked  myself  the  question.  Some- 
where must  be  lurking  a  guilty  creature,  with  a  heart 
on.iire  from  the  flames  of  hell,  with-  which  it  had  put 
itself  in  contact. 

Then  my  heart  stood  still  within  me — all  but  the 
family  had  been  b.-mished  from  the  apartment — her 
father  was  leading  in  Kleanor.  With  a  slow  step,  cling- 
ing to  his  arm,  sin-  entered  ;  but  as  her  eyes  ti\rd  them- 
I  upon  the  rigid  outlines  lying  there  beneath  the 
funeral  pall,  she  sprung  forward,  casting  hei>elf  upon 
her  lover's  corpse.  Before,  she  had  been  silent  ;  now 
began  a  murmur  of  woe  so  heart-rending  that  w»-  who 
listeiu-d  wished  onrsch cs  deaf  before  our  ears  h:id  heard 
and  sentences  which  could  nc\er  be  f.. rotten. 
It  would  IHJ  useless  for  me,  a  man,  with  a  man's  lan- 
guage and  thoughts,  to  attempt  to  repeat  what  this 
broken-hearted  woman  said  to  her  dead 

It  was  not  her  words  so  much  as  it  was  her  pathetic 
tones. 

She  talked  to  him  as  if  he  were  alive  and  could  hear 
her.  She  was  resolved  to  make  him  hear  and  feel  her 
love  through  the  dark  death  which  was  between  them. 

"Ah,  Henry,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  caressing  tone, 
pressing  back  the  curls  from  his  forehead  with  her  hand, 
"  your  hair  is  wet  still.  To  think  that  you  should  lie, 
out  there  all  night — all  night — on  the  ground,  in  the 
rain,  and  I  not  knov  of  it !  I,  to  be  sleeping  in  my 


CEAZED.  29 

warm  bed — actually  sleeping,  and  you  lying  out  in  the 
storm,  dead.  That  is  the  strangest  thing  !  that  makes 
me  wonder — to  think  I  could!  Tell  me  that  you  for- 
give me  for  that,  darling — for  sleeping,  you  know,  when 
you  were  out  there.  I  was  thinking  of  you  when  I 
took  the  rose  out  of  my  dress  at  night.  I  dreamed  of 
you  all  night,  but  if  I  had  known  where  you  were,  I 
would  have  gone  out  barefooted,  I  would  have  stayed 
by  you  and  kept  the  rain  from  your  face,  from  your 
dear,  dear  hair  that  I  like  so  much  and  hardly  ever  dare 
to  touch.  It  was  cruel  of  me  to  sleep  so.  Would  you 
guess,  I  was  vexed  at  you  last  evening  because  you 
didn't  come  ?  It  was  that  made  me  so  gay — not  be- 
cause I  was  happy.  Vexed  at  you  for  not  coming, 
when  you  could  not  come  because  you  were  dead !" 
and  she  laughed. 

As  that  soft,  dreadful  laughter  thrilled  through  the 
room,  with  a  groan  Mr.  Argyll  arose  and  went  out ; 
he  could  bear  no  more.  Disturbed  with  a  fear  that  her 
reason  was  shaken,  I  spoke  with  Mary,  and  we  two 
tried  to  lift  her  up,  and  persuade  her  out  of  the  room. 

"  Oh,  don't  try  to  get  me  away  from  him  again,"  she 
pleaded,  with  a  quivering  smile,  which  made  us  sick. 
"  Don't  be  troubled,  Henry.  I'm  not  going — I'm  not! 
They  are  going  to  put  my  hand  in  yours  and  bury  me 
with  you.  It's  so  curious  I  should  have  been  playing 
the  piano  and  wearing  my  new  dress,  and  never 
guessing  it !  that  you  were  so  near  rne — dead — 
murdered !" 

The  kisses  ;  the  light,  gentle  touches  of  his  hands 
and  forehead,  as  if  she  might  hurt  him  Avith  the  caresses 
which  she  could  not  withhold ;  the  intent  look  which 
continually  watched  him  as  if  expecting  an  answer; 
the  miserable"smile  upon  her  white  face — these  were 
things  which  haunted  those  who  saw  them  through 
many  a  future  slumber. 


30  THB   DEAD   LETTEB. 

"  You  will  not  say  you  forgive  me  for  singing  last 
night.  You  don't  say  a  word  to  me — because  you  are 
dead — that's  it — because  you  are  dead — murdered  !" 

The  echo  of  her  own  last  word  recalled  her  wander- 
ing reason. 

"  My  God !  murdered !"  she  exclaimed,  suddenly 
rising  to  her  full  hight,  with  an  awful  air ;  "  who  do 
you  suppose  did  it  ?" 

Her  cousin  was  standing  near;  her  eyes  fell  upon 
him  as  she  asked  the  question.  The  look,  the  manner, 
were  too  much  for  his  already  overwrought  sensibility  ; 
he  shrunk  away,  caught  my  arm,' and  sunk  down, 
insensible.  I  did  not  wonder.  We  all  of  us  felt  as  if 
we  could  endure  no  more. 

Coins;  to  the  family  phy>ician,  who  waited  in  another 
apartment,  I  begged  of  him  to  use  some  influence  to 
withdraw  1  from  the  room,  and  quiet  her 

feelings  and  memory,  before  her  brain  yielded  to  the 
strain  upon  it.  After  giving  us  some  directions  what 
to  do  with  James,  he  went  and  talked  with  her,  witli 
so  much  wisdom  and  tact,  that  the  danger  to  her  r. 
seemed  pacing  ;  persuading  her  also  into  taking  the 
powder  which  he  himself  administered  ;  but  no  argu- 
ment could  induce  her  to  leave  the  mute,  unans\\ering 
clay. 

The  arrival  of  the  relatives  was  the  last  scene  in  tlio 
tragedy  of  that  day.  Unable  to  lx?ar  more  of  it,  I 
\\<nt  out  in  the  darkness  and  walked  upon  tlie  lawn. 
My  head  was  hot ;  the  cool  air  felt  grateful  to  me  ;  I 
leaned  long  upon  the  trunk  of  an  oak,  whose  dark 
shadow  shut  out  the  starlight  from  about  me  ;  thought 
was  busy  with  recent  events.  Who  was  the  muni. 
The  question  revolved  in  my  brain,  coming  uppermost 
other  moment,  as  certainly  as  the  turning  d  a 
wheel  brings  a  certain  point  again  and  again  to  the 
top.  My  training,  as  a  student  of  the  law,  helped  my 


WHO   WAS   THE   MURDERER  ?  31 

mind  to  fix  upon  every  slightest  circumstance  which 
might  hold  a  suspicion. 

"  Could  that  woman  ?" — but  no,  the  hand  of  a  woman 
could  scarcely  have  given  that  sure  and  powerful  blow. 
It  looked  like  the  work  of  a  practiced  hand — or,  if  not, 
at  least  it  had  been  deliberately  given,  with  malice 
aforethought.  The  assassin  had  premeditated  the  deed ; 
had  watched  his  victim  and  awaited  the  hour.  Thus 
far,  there  was  absolutely  no  clue  whatever  to  the  guilty 
party ;  bold  as  was  the  act,  committed  in  the  early 
evening,  in  the  haunts  of  a  busy  community,  it  had 
been  most  fatally  successful ;  and  the  doer  had  vanished 
as  completely  as  if  the  earth  had  opened  and  swallow- 
ed him  up.  No  one,  as  yet,  could  form  any  plausible 
conjecture,  even  as  to  the  motive. 

In  the  name  of  Eleanor  Argyll — in  the  name  of  her 
whom  I  loved,  whose  happiness  I  had  that  day  seen  in 
ruins,  I  vowed  to  use  every  endeavor  to  discover  and 
bring  to  punishment  the  murderer.  I  know  not  why 
this  purpose  took  such  firm  hold  of  me.  The  convic- 
tion of  the  guilty  would  not  restore  the  life  which  had 
been  taken  ;  the  bloom  to  a  heart  prematurely  withered  ; 
it  would  afford  no  consolation  to  the  bereaved.  Yet, 
if  to  discover,  had  been  to  call  back  Henry  Moreland 
to  the  world  from  which  he  had  been  so  ruthlessly 
dismissed,  I  could  hardly  have  been  more  determined 
in  the  pursuit.  In  action  only  could  I  feel  relief  from 
the  oppression  which  weighed  upon  me.  It  could  not 
give  life  to  the  dead — but  the  voice  of  Justice  called 
aloud,  never  to  permit  this  deed  to  sink  into  oblivion, 
until  she  had  executed  the  divine  vengeance  of  the  law 
upon  the  doer. 

As  I  stood  there  in  silence  and  darkness,  pondering 
the  matter,  I  heard  a  light  rustle  of  the  dry  leaves 
upon  the  ground,  and  felt,  rather  than  saw,  a  figure 
pass  me.  I  might  have  thought  it  one  of  the  servants 


82  THE    DEAD    LETTER. 

were  it  not  for  the  evident  caution  of  its  movements. 
Presently,  where  the  shadows  of  the  trees  were  less 
thick,  I  detected  a  person  stealing  to\v;ml  the  house. 
As  she  crossed  an  open  space,  the  starlight  revealed 
the  form  and  garments  of  a  female  ;  the  next  moment 
she  passed  into  the  obscurity  of  shadows  again,  win  TO 
she  remained  some  time,  unsuspicious  of  my  proximity, 
like  myself  leaning  against  a  tree,  and  watching  the 
mansion.  Apparently  satisfied  that  no  one  was  about 
— the  hour  now  verging  toward  midnight — she 
approached  with  hovering  steps,  now  pausing,  now 
drawing  baek,  the  west  side  of  the  mansion,  1'nnn  one 
of  the  windows  of  which  the  solemn  light  of  the  death- 
candles  shone.  Under  this  window  she  crouched  down. 
I  could  not  tell  if  her  attitude  were  a  kneeling  one. 
It  must  have  been  more  than  an  hour  that  she  remained 
motionless  in  this  place;  I,  equally  quiet,  watching  tin- 
dark  spot  where  she  was.  For  the  instant  that  she 
had  sto.nl  between  me  and  the  \\5ndow,  her  form  was 
outlined  against  the  light,  when  I  saw  that  this  must 
be  the  young  woman  uhose  strange  conduct  at  the 
,  gate  had  attracted  my  attention.  Of  course  I  did  not 
see  her  face;  but  the  tall,  slender  figure,  the  dark  bon- 
.nd  nervous  movement,  were  the  same.  I  per- 
d  myself  with  vain  conjectures. 

I  could  not  help  connecting  her  with  the  murder,  or 
wilh  the  victim,  in  some  manner,  ho\\v\ 

At  last  she  arose,  lingered,  went  away,  passing  near 
me  with  that  soft,  rustling  step  again.  I  was  impelled 
to  stretch  out  my  hand  and  sei/e  her  ;  her  conduct  was 
suspicion*;  ^he  ought  to  be  .-.ircMcd  and  examined,  if 
only  to  clear  herself  of  these  circumstances.  The  idea 
that,  by  following  her,  I  might  trace  her  to  some  haunt, 
where  proofs  were  secreted,  or  accomplices  hidden, 
withheld  my  grasp. 

Cautiously  timing    my    step    with  hers,   that    the 


THE   TENEMENT-HOUSE.  83 

murmur  of  the  leaves  might  not  betray  me,  I  followed. 
As  she  passed  out  the  gate,  I  stood  behind  a  tree,  lest 
she  should  look  back  and  discern  me ;  then  I  passed 
through,  following  along  in  the  shadow  of  the  fence. 

She  hurried  on  in  the  direction  of  the  spot  at  which 
the  murder  had  been  committed ;  but  when  nearly 
there,  perceiving  that  some  persons,  though  long  past 
midnight,  still  hovered  about  the  fatal  place,  she  turned, 
and  passed  me.  As  soon  as  I  dared,  without  alarming 
her,  I  also  turned,  pursuing  her  through  the  long,  quiet 
street,  until  it  brought  her  to  a  more  crowded  and 
poorer  part  of  the  village,  where  she  went  down  a  side 
street,  and  disappeared  in  a  tenement-house,  the 
entrance-hall  to  which  was  open.  I  ought  to  have 
gone  at  once  for  officers,  and  searched  the  place  ;  but  I 
unwisely  concluded  to  wait  for  daylight. 

As  I  came  up  the  walk  on  my  return,  I  met  James 
Argyll  in  the  avenue,  near  the  front  portico. 

"  Oh,  is  it  you  ?"  he  exclaimed,  after  I  had  spoken 
to  him.  "  I  thought  it  was — was — " 

"  You  are  not  superstitious,  James  ?"  for  his  hollow 
voice  betrayed  that  he  was  frightened. 

"  You  did  give  me  a  confounded  uneasy  sensation  as 
you  came  up,"  he  answered  with  a  laugh. — How  can 
people  laugh  under  such  circumstances  ? — "  Where 
have  you  been  at  this  hour,  Richard  ?" 

"  Walking  in  the  cool  air.  The  house  smothered 
me." 

"  So  it  did  me.  I  could  not  rest.  I  have  just  come 
out  to  get  a  breath  of  air." 

"  It  is  almost  morning,"  I  said,  and  passed  on  into 
my  chamber. 

I  knew  who  watched,  without  food,  M'ithout  rest,  in 
the  chamber  of  death,  by  whose  door  my  footsteps  led ; 
but  ache  as  my  heart  might,  I  had  no  words  of  comfort 
for  sorrow  like  hers — so  I  passed  on. 


34  T1IE   DEAD  LETTER. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MORELAXD    VILLA. 

SEVERAL  minor  circumstances  prevented  my  going  in 
search  of  the  woman  who  had  excited  my  suspicions  on 
the  previous  day,  until  about  nine  o'clock  of  the  morn- 
ing, when  I  engaged  an  officer,  and  we  two  went  quietly, 
without  communicating  our  plans  to  any  one  else,  to 
the  tenement-house  before  spoken  of.  - 

Although  Blankville  was  not  a  large  village,  there 
was  in  it,  as  in  nearly  every  town  blessed  with  a  rail- 
road depot,  a  shabby  (juarti-r  where  the  rougher  portion 
of  its  working  people  lived.  The  house  stood  in  this 
quarter — it  was  a  three-story  frame  building,  occupied 
by  half  a  dozen  families,  mostly  those  of  Irish  laborers, 
who  found  work  in  the  vicinity  of  the  depot.  I  had 
seen  the  strange  girl  ascend  to  the  second  floor,  in  the 
dim  light  of  the  previous  night,  so  we  went  up  and 
knocked  at  the  fii>t  ilo.n-  we  came  upon.  It  wasopem-d 
by  a  decent-appearing  middle-a.^ed  woman,  who  held 
the  knob  in  her  hand  while  she  waited  for  us  to  make 
known  our  errand;  we  both  stepped  into  her  apart- 
ment, before  we  spoke.  A  rapid  glance  revealed  an 
innocent-looking  room  with  the  ordinary  furniture  of 
such  a  place — a  cooking-stove,  bed,  table,  etc. ;  but  no 
other  inmate.  There  was  a  cupboard,  the  door  of  which 
stood  open,  showing  its  humble  array  of  dishes  and 
eatables — there  were  no  pantries,  nor  cither  pla« , 
concealment,  I  was  certain  that  I  had  seen  the  girl 
enter  this  room  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  so  I  vcutun •«! : 

" Is  your  daughter  at  home,  ma'.. 

"  Is  it  my  niece  you  mean  ?" 

I  detected  an  Irish  accent,  though  the  woman  spoke 


MKS.    SULLIVAN.  35 

with  but  little  "  brogue,"  and  was  evidently  an  old  resi- 
dent of  our  country — in  a  manner  Americanized. 

"  Oh,  she  is  your  niece  ?  I  suppose  so — a  tall  girl 
with  dark  eyes  and  hair." 

"  That's  Leesy,  herself.  Was  you  wanting  any  work 
done  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  officer,  quickly,  taking  the  mat- 
ter out  of  my  hands.  "  I  wanted  to  get  a  set  of  shirts 
made  up — six,  with  fine,  stitched  bosoms."  He  had  no- 
ticed a  cheap  sewing-machine  standing  near  the  win- 
dow, and  a  bundle  of  coarse  muslin  in  a  basket  near  by. 

"  It's  sorry  I  am  to  disappoint  you ;  but  Leesy's  not 
with  me  now,  and  I  hardly  venture  on  the  fine  work. 
I  make  the  shirts  for  the  hands  about  the  railroad  that 
hasn't  wives  of  their  own  to  do  it — but  for  the  fine  bus- 
sums" — doubtfully — "  though,  to  be  sure,  the  machine 
does  the  stitches  up  beautiful — if  it  wasn't  for  the  but- 
ton-holes !" 

"  Where  is  Leesy  ?     Doesn't  she  stop  with  you  ?" 

"  It's  her  I  have  here  always  when  she's  out  of  a 
place.  She's  an  orphan,  poor  girl,  and  it's  not  in  the 
blood  of  a  Sullivan  to  turn  off  their  own.  I've  brought 
her  up  from  a  little  thing  of  five  years  old — given  her 
the  education,  too.  She  can  read  and  write  like  the 
ladies  of  the  land." 

"  You  didn't  say  where  she  was,  Mrs.  Sullivan." 

"  She's  making  the  fine  things  in  a  fancy-store  in  New 
York — caps  and  collars  and  sleeves  and  the  beautiful 
tucked  waists — she's  such  taste,  and  the  work  is  not  so 
hard  as  plain-sewing — four  dollars  a  week  she  gets,  and 
boarded  for  two  and  a  half,  in  a  nice,  genteel  place. 
She  expects  to  be  illivated  to  the  forewoman's  place,  at 
seven  dollars  the  week,  before  many  months.  She  was 
here  to  stay  over  the  Sunday  with  me — she  often  does 
that ;  and  she's  gone  back  by  the  six  o'clock  train  this 
mornin' — and  she'll  be  surely  late  at  that  by  an  hour- 


86  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

I  tried  to  coax  her  to  stay  the  day,  she  seemed  so 
poorly.  She's  not  been  herself  this  lone:  time — she 
seems  goin'  in  a  decline  like — it's  the  stooping  over  the 
needle,  I  think.  She's  eo  nervine-like,  the  news  of  the 
murder  yesterday  almost  killed  her.  'Twas  an  awful 
deed  that,  wasn't  it,  gintlemen  ?  I  couldn't  sleep  a, 
wink  last  night  for  thinkin'  of  that  poor  young  man  and 
the  sweet  lady  he  was  to  have  married.  Such  a  fine, 
generous,  polite  young  gintleman  1" 

"  Did  you  know  him  ?" 

"  Know  him !  as  well  as  my  own  son  if  I  had  one ! — 
not  that  ever  I  spoke  to  him,  but  he's  passed  here  often 
on  his  way  to  his  father's  house,  and  t<>  Mr.  Argyll's; 
and  Lecsy  sewed  in  their  family  tlu-M-  two  summers 
when  they've  been  here,  and  was  alu  paid. 

When  she'd  iro  away  he'd  say,  laughing  in  \\\*  beauti- 
ful way,  'And  how  much  have  y.-u  earned  a  day,  .Mi-s 
Sullivan,  sitting  there  all  these  long,  hot  hours  ?'  and 
she'd  answer,  'Fifty  rents  a  day,  and  thanks  to  your 
mother  for  the  good  pay;'  and  he'd  put  his  hand  in  his 
pocket  and  pull  out  a  ten-dollar  gold-piece  and  say, 
1  Women  aren't  half  paid  for  their  work!  it's  a  shame! 
it'  \oii  hain't  earned  a  dollar  a  da\ .  .Mi»>  Sullivan,  you 
hain't  earned  a  cent.  So  don't  be  afraid  to  take  it — it's 
your  due.'  And  that's  what  made  Leesy  think  so 
much  of  him — he  was  so  thoughtful  of  the  poor — God 
bless  him !  How  could  anybody  have  the  heart  to  do 
it!" 

I  looked  at  the  officer  and  found  his  eyes  reading  my 
One  thought  had  evidently  flashed  over  both  of 
i'lit  it  wa«  a  suspicion  which  wmn  j,-d  the  immaeu- 
mem*ry  of  Henry  Moreland,  and   I,  for  my  part, 
b:ini»hed  it  as  soon  as  it  entered  my  n .'•••         1 
him  to  pay  generously  the  labors  of 
girl;  it  was  not  like  him  to  take  any  advantage  of  her 
ignorance  or  gratitude,  which  might  result  in  her  takiui: 


THE   SEWING-GIKL.  87 

such  desperate  revenge  for  her  wrongs.  The  thought 
was  an  insult  to  him  and  to  the  noble  woman  who  was 
to  have  been  his  wife.  I  blushed  at  the  intrusive,  un- 
welcome fancy ;  but  the  officer,  not  knowing  the  de- 
ceased as  I  knew  him,  and,  perhaps,  having  no  such 
exalted  idea  of  manhood  as  mine,  seemed  to  feel  as  if 
here  might  be  a  thread  to  follow. 

"  Leesy  thought  much  of  him,  you  think,  Mrs.  Sulli- 
van," taking  a  chair  unbidden,  and  putting  on  a  friendly, 
gossiping  air.  "  Everybody  speaks  well  of  him.  So 
she  sewed  in  the  family  ?" 

"  Six  weeks  every  summer.  They  was  always  satis- 
fied with  her  sewing — she's  the  quickest  and  neatest 
hand  with  the  needle !  She'd  make  them  shirts  of  yours 
beautiful,  if  she  was  to  home,  sir." 

"  When  did  she  go  to  New  York  to  live  ?" 

"  Last  winter,  early.  It's  nearly  a  year  now.  There 
was  something  come  across  her — she  appeared  homesick 
like,  and  strange.  When  she  said  she  meant  to  go  to 
the  city  and  get  work,  I  was  minded  to  let  her  go,  for 
I  thought  the  change  mebbe  would  do  her  good.  But 
she's  quite  ailing  and  coughs  dreadful  o'  nights.  I'm 
afraid  she  catched  cold  in  that  rain-storm  night  afore 
last ;  she  came  up  all  the  way  from  the  depot  in  it. 
She  was  wet  to  the  skin  when  she  got  here  and  as  white 
as  a  sheet.  She  was  so  weak-like  that  when  the  neighr 
bors  came  in  with  the  news  yesterday,  she  gave  a 
scream  and  dropped  right  down.  I  didn't  wonder  she 
was  took  aback.  I  ain't  got  done  trembling  yet  my- 
self." 

I  remembered  the  gentleman  who  had  first  spoken  to 
me  about  the  girl  said  that  she  had  come  in  on  the  morn- 
ing train  Saturday ;  I  could  not  reconcile  this  with  her 
coming  up  from  the  depot  at  dark ;  yet  I  wished  to  put 
my  question  in  such  a  way  as  not  to  arouse  suspicion 
of  my  motive. 


38  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

"  If  she  came  in  the  six  o'clock  train  she  must  have 
been  on  the  same  train  with  Mr.  Moreland." 

"  I  believe  she  was  in  the  seven  o'clock  cars — yes, 
she  was.  *Twas  hall-past  seven  when  she  got  in — the 
rain  was  pouring  down  awful.  She  didn't  see  him,  for 
I  asked  her  yesterday." 

"  In  whose  shop  in  New  York  is  she  employed  ?" 
inquired  the  officer. 

"  She's  at  No  3 —  Broadway,''  naming  a  store  some- 
where between  Wall  street  and  Canal. 

"  Are  you  wanting  her  for  any  thing  ?"  she  asked, 
suddenly,  looking  up  sharply  as  if  it  just  occurred  to 
her  that  our  inquiries  were  rather  pointed. 

"  Oh,  no,"  replied  my  companion,  rising ;  "  I  was  a 
bit  tired,  and  thought  I'd  rest  my  feet  before  starting 
out  again.  I'll  thank  you  for  a  glass  of  water,  Mrs. 
Sullivan.  So  yon  won't  undertake  the  shirts  ?" 

44  If  I  thought  I  could  do  the  button-holes — " 

"  Perhaps  your  niece  could  do  them  on  her  next  visit, 
if  you  wanted  the  job,"  I  suggested. 

"  Why,  so  she  could  !  and  would  be  glad  to  do  some- 
thing for  her  old  aunt.  It's  bright  you  are  to  put  me 
in  iniiul  of  it.  Shall  I  come  lor  (he  work,  sir?" 

"  I'll  send  it  round  when  I  get  it  ready.  I  suppose 
your  niece  intends  to  visit  you  next  Saturday  ?" 

"  Well,  ra'ly,  I  can't  say.  It's  too  expensive  her 
coming  every  week  ;  but,  she'll  sure  be  here  afore  the 
whole  six  is  complate.  Good-morn'm',  trintlemen — and 
they's  heard  nothin'  of  the  murderer,  I'll  warrant  ?" 

We  responded  that  nothing  had  been  learnetl.  and 
descending  to  the  street,  it  was  arranged,  as  we  walked 
along,  that  the  officer  should  go  to  New  York  and  j>ut 
some  detective  there  on  the  track  of  Leesy  Sullivan.  I 
informed  my  companion  of  the  discrepancy  between  her 
actual  arrival  in  town  and  her  appearance  at  her  aunt's. 
Either  the  woman  had  purposely  deceived  us,  or  her 


SUSPICIONS.  39 

niece  had  not  gone  home  for  a  good  many  hours  after 
landing  at  Blankville.  I  went  with  him  to  the  depot, 
where  we  made  a  few  inquiries  which  convinced  us  that 
she  had  arrived  on  Saturday  morning,  and  sat  an  hour 
or  two  in  the  ladies'  room,  and  then  gone  away  up  town. 

There  was  sufficient  to  justify  our  looking  further. 
I  took  from  my  own  pocket  means  to  defray  the  ex- 
penses of  the  officer  as  well  as  to  interest  the  New  York 
detective,  adding  that  liberal  rewards  were  about  to  be 
offered,  and  waited  until  I  saw  him  depart  on  his  errand. 

Then,  turning  to  go  to  the  office,  my  heart  so  sicken- 
ed at  the  idea  of  business  and  the  ordinary  routine  of 
living  in  the  midst  of  such  misery,  that  my  footsteps 
shrunk  aAvay  from  their  familiar  paths !  I  could  do 
nothing,  just  then,  for  the  aid  or  comfort  of  the  afflicted. 
Tho  body  was  to  be  taken  that  afternoon  to  the  city 
for  interment,  the  next  day,  in  the  family  inclosm-e  at 
Greenwood  ;  until  the  hour  for  its  removal,  there  was 
nothing  more  that  friendship  could  perform  in  the  ser- 
vice of  the  mourners.  My  usual  prescription  for  mental 
ailments  was  a  long  and  vigorous  walk ;  to-day  I  felt 
as  if  I  could  breathe  only  in  the  wide  sunshine,  so 
cramped  and  chilled  were  my  spirits. 

The  summer  residence  of  the  Morelands  lay  about  a 
mile  beyond  the  Argyll  mansion,  out  of  the  village 
proper,  on  a  hillside,  which  sloped  down  to  the  river. 
It  was  surrounded  by  fine  grounds,  and  commanded 
one  of  the  loveliest  views  of  the  Hudson. 

"  A  spirit  in  my  feet 
Led  me,  who  knows  how?" 

in  the  direction  of  this  now  vacant  and  solitary  place — 
solitary,  I  believed,  with  the  exception  of  the  gardener 
and  his  wife,  who  lived  in  a  cottage  back  of  the  gar- 
dens, and  who  remained  the  year  round,  he  to  attend 
to  out-door  matters,  and  she  to  give  housekeeper's  care 
to  the  closed  mansion. 


40  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

The  place  had  never  looked  more  beautiful  to  rae, 
not  even  in  the  bloom  of  its  June  fbliftg6  and  flowers, 

than  it  did  as  I  approached  it  on  this  occasion.  The 
frosts  had  turned  to  every  gorgeous  color  the  top-  of 
the  trees  which  stood  out  here  and  there;  back  of  the 
house,  and  extending  down  toward  the  southern  irate, 
by  which  I  entered,  a  grove  of  maples  and  elms 
glowed  in  the  autumn  sunshine;  the  lawn  in  front 
sloped  down  to  the  water's  edge,  which  tlowed  by  in  a 
blue  and  lordly  stream,  bearing  on  its  broad  ln>«om 
picturesque  white  ships.  In  the  garden,  through  which 
now  walking,  many  brilliant  flowers  still  lingered  : 
asters,  gold,  pink  and  purple  ; chrysanthemums;  some 
dahlias  which  had  been  covered  from  the  frost ;  panics 
lurking  under  their  broad  leaves.  It  had  been  the  in- 
tention of  the  young  couple  to  make  this  their  perma- 
nent home  after  their  marriage,  going  to  the  city 
only  for  a  couple  of  the  winter  months.  The  very  next 
week.  I  had  heard,  Eleanor  expected  to  go  down  to 
help  Henry  in  his  selection  of  new  furniture. 

Here  the  mansion  lay,  bathed  in  the  rich  sunshine  ; 
the  garden  sparkled  with  llo  \\ers  a«  the  river  with 
ripples,  so  full,  as  it  were,  of  consciou>,  joy  on - 
while  the  master  of  all  lay  in  a  darkened  room  await- 
ing his  narrow  coffin,  \c\cr  had  the  uncertainty  of 
human  purposes  BO  impressed  me  .-^  when  I  looked 
abroad  over  that  stately  residence  and  thought  of  the 
prosperous  future  which  had  come  to  so  awful  a  stand- 
still. I  gathered  a  handful  of  pansies — they 
Eleanor's  favorites.  As  I  approached  the  IIOUM-  by  the 
garden,  I  came  nearly  upon  the  portico  which  extended 
acres-  •  :n  front  before  I  perceived  that  i1 

occupied.  Sitting  on  its  outer  edge,  with  one  arm 
half  wound  around  one  of  its  pillars,  and  her  bonnet 
in  the-  grass  at  her  feet,  I  beheld  the  sewing-girl  after 
whom  I  had  dispatched  an  officer  to  Now  York.  She 


A    STUDY.  41 

did  not  perceive  me,  and  I  had  an  opportunity  of  study- 
ing the  face  of  the  woman  who  had  fallen  under  my 
suspicion,  when  she  was  unaware  that  my  eye  was 
upon  it,  and  when  her  soul  looked  out  of  it,  unvailed, 
in  the  security  of  solitude.  The  impression  which  she 
made  upon  me  was  that  of  despair.  It  was  written  on 
attitude  and  expression.  It  was  neither  grief  nor 
remorse — it  was  blank  despair.  It  must  have  been 
half  an  hour  that  I  remained  quiet,  watching  her.  In 
all  that  time  she  never  stirred  hand  nor  eyelid ;  her 
glance  was  upon  the  greensward  at  her  feet.  When  I 
turn  to  that  page  of  my  memoi-y,  I  see  her,  photo- 
graphed, as  it  were,  upon  it — every  fold  of  the  dai'k  dress, 
which  was  some  worsted  substance,  frayed,  but  neat ; 
the  black  shawl,  bordered,  drawn  close  about  the  slen- 
der shoulders,  which  had  the  slight,  habitual  stoop  of 
those  who  ply  the  needle  for  a  living ;  the  jetty  hair 
pushed  back  from  her  forehead,  the  marble  whiteness 
and  rigidity  of  the  face  and  mouth. 

It  was  a  face  made  to  express  passion.  And,  although 
the  only  passion  expressed  now  was  that  of  despair, 
so  intense  that  it  grew  like  apathy,  I  could  easily  see 
how  the  rounded  chin  and  full  lips  could  melt  into 
softer  moods.  The  forehead  was  rather  low,  but  fair, 
consorting  with  the  oval  of  the  cheek  and  chin  ;  the 
brows  dark  and  rather  heavy.  I  remembered  the  wild 
black  eyes  which  I  had  seen  the  previous  day,  and 
could  guess  at  their  hidden  fires. 

This  was  a  girl  to  attract  interest  at  any  time,  and  I 
mutely  wondered  what  had  entangled  the  threads  of 
her  fate  in  the  glittering  web  of  a  higher  fortune, 
which  was  now  suddenly  interwoven 'with- the  pall  of 
death.  All  her  movements  had  been  such  as  to  con- 
firm my  desire  to  ascertain  her  connection,  if  any,  with 
the  tragedy.  It  seemed  to  me  that  if  I  could  see  her 
eyes,  before  she  was  conscious  of  observance,  I  could 


42  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

tell  whether  there  was  guilt,  or  only  sorrow,  in  her 
In-art ;  therefore  I  remained  quiet,  waiting.  But  I  had 
mistaken  my  powers,  or  the  eyes  overbore  them.  When 
she  did  lilt  them,  as  a  steamer  came  puffing  around  the 
base  of  the  mountain  which  ran  down  into  the  river  at 
the  east,  and  they  suddenly  encountered  mine,  where  I 
stood  not  ten  feet  from  her,  I  saw  only  black,  unfath- 
omable depths,  pouring  out  a  trouble  so  intense,  that 
my  own  gaze  dropped  beneath  their  power. 

She  did  not  start,  upon  observing  me,  which,  as  I 
thought,  a  guilty  person,buried  in  sell-accusing  reveries, 
would  have  done — it  seemed  only  slotvly  to  penetrate 
her  consciousness  that  a  stranger  was  confronting  her ; 
when  I  raised  my  eyes,  which  had  sunk  beneath  the 
intensity  of  hers,  she  was  moving  rapidly  away  toward 
the  western  gate. 

"  Miss  Sullivan,  you  have  forgotten  your  bonnet." 
With  a  woman's  instinct  she  put  up  her  hand  to 
smooth  her  disordered  hair,  came  slowly  back  and  took 
the  bonnet  which  I  extended  toward  her,  without 
speaking.  I  hesitated  what  move  to  make  next.  I 
wished  tn  aiMress  her — she  was  hen-,  in  my  grasp,  and 
I  ought  to  >ati>l'y  my>elf,  a-<  far  as  possible,  about  the 
suspicions  which  I  had  conceived.  J  might  do  her  an 
irreparable  injury  by  making  my  feeling  public,  if  she 
were  innocent  of  any  aid  or  instigation  of  the  crime 
which  had  been  committed,  yet  there  were  circum- 
stances which  could  hardly  pass  unchallenged.  That 
unaccountable  absence  of  hers  on  Saturday,  t'r«m  three 
o'clock  until  an  hour  after  the  mtinlcr  was  committed  ; 
the  statement  of  her  aunt  that  she  was  in  the  city,  and 
my  finding  her  in  this  spot,  in  connection  with  tin-  mid- 
night visit  to  the  window,  and  the  other  things  which 
1  had  observed,  were  sufficient  to  justify  inquiry.  V  . 
if  I  alarmed  her  prematurely  I  should  have  the  less 
chance  of  coming  upon  proofs,  and  her  accomplices,  if 


A   CONVBBSATION.  43 

she  had  any,  would  be  led  to  take  steps  for  greater 
safety.  Anyhow,  I  would  make  her  speak,  and  find 
what  there  was  in  her  voice. 

"Your  aunt  told  me  that  you  had  gone  to  New 
York,"  I  said,  stepping  along  beside  her,  as  she  turned 
away. 

"  She  thought  so.  Did  you  come  here  to  see  me, 
sir  ?"  stopping  short  in  her  walk,  and  looking  at  me  as 
if  she  expected  me  to  tell  my  business. 

This  again  did  not  look  like  the  trepidation  of  guilt. 

"  No.  I  came  out  for  a  walk.  I  suppose  our 
thoughts  have  led  us  both  in  the  same  direction.  This 
place  will  have  an  interest  to  many,  hereafter." 

"  Interest !  the  interest  of  vulgar  curiosity !  It  will 
give  them  something  to  talk  about.  I  hate  it !"  She 
spoke  more  to  herself  than  to  me,  while  a  ray  of  fire 
darted  from  those  black  orbs  ;  the  next  instant  her  face 
subsided  into  that  passionate  stillness  again. 

Her  speech  was  not  that  of  her  station  ;  I  recalled 
what  her  aunt  had  said  about  the  education  she  had 
bestowed  on  her,  and  decided  that  the  girl's  mind  was 
one  of  those  which  reach  out  beyond  their  circumstances 
— aspiring — ambitious — and  that  this  aspiring  nature 
may  have  led  her  into  her  present  unhappiness.  That 
she  was  unhappy,  if  not  sinful,  it  took  but  a  glance  to 
assure  me. 

"  So  do  I  hate  it.  I  do  not  like  to  have  the  grief  of 
my  friends  subjected  to  cold  and  curious  eyes." 

"  Yet,  it  is  a  privilege  to  have  the  right  to  mourn.  I 
tell  you  the  sorrow  of  that  beautiful  lady  he  was  to 
have  married  is  light  compared  with  trouble  that  some 
feel.  There  are  those  who  envy  her." 

It  was  not  her  words,  as  much  as  her  wild,  half- 
choked  voice,  which  gave  effect  to  them;  she  spoke, 
and  grew  silent,  as  if  conscious  that  the  truth  had  been 
wrung  from  her  in  the  ear  of  a  stranger.  We  had 


44  THE   DEAD  LETTER. 

reached  the  gate,  and  she  seemed  anxious  to  escape 
through  it;  but  I  held  it  in  my  hand,  looking  hard  at 
her,  as  I  said — "It  may  have  been  the  hand  of  envy 
which  dashed  the  cup  of  fruition  from  her  lips.  Her 
young  life  is  withered  never  to  bloom  again.  I  can 
imagine  but  one  wretchedness  in  this  world  greater 
than  hers — and  that  is  the  wretchedness  of  the  guilty 
person  who  has  mttrdtr  written  on  his  or  her  soul." 

A  spasm  contracted  her  face ;  she  pushed  at  the  gate 
which  1  still  held. 

"  All.  don't,"  -he  said;  "let  me  p 

I  opened  it  and  she  darted  througli,  fleeing  along 
the  road  which  led  out  around  the  backward  slope  of 
the  hill,  like  lo  pursued  by  the  stinging  lly.  Her  path 
was  away  from  the  village,  so  that  I  hardly  expected 
to  see  her  again  that  day. 

Within  t\\«>  minutes  the  gardener's  wife  came  up  the 
road  to  the  gate.  She  had  been  down  to  \  i-it  the  corpse 
of  her  young  master;  her  eyes  were  red  with  weep- 
ing. 

*  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  lledlii-ld?  Tlu-sr  be  infera- 
ble times,  ain't  they?  My  very  heart  i^  son-  in  my 
breast;  but  I  couldn't  cry  a  tear  iii  the  room  \\here  lu> 
was,  a-lying  there  like  life,  for  Miss  Eleanor  sot  by  him 
like  a  statue.  It  made  me  cold  all  o\vr  to  Me  her — I 
couldn't  speak  to  save  me.  The  father  and  mother  are 
j\\>{  broke  down,  too." 

"  How  is  Miss  Eleanor,  this  morning  ?" 

"The  Lord  knows !  She  doesn't  «lo  any  thing  but 
pit  there,  as  quiet  as  can  be.  It'>  a  bad  symptom,  to 
my  thinking.  4  Still  waters  run  deep.'  They're  a-dread- 
ing  the  hour  when  they'll  have  t->  n,n,.\e  the  body 
from  the  house — they're  afraid  her  mind  '11 

"No,  no,"  I  answered,  inwardly  shuddering;  '% 
nor' s  reason  is  too  fine  and  powerful  to  be  uust. 
even  by  a  blow  like  this." 


THE  GARDENER'S  WIFE.  45 

"  Who  was  that  went  out  the  gate  as  I  came  around 
the  bend  ?  Was  it  that  girl,  again  ?" 

"  Do  you  mean  Leesy  Sullivan  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  Do  you  know  her  ?  She  acts  mighty 
queei-,  to  my  thinkin'.  She  was  out  here  Saturday,  sit- 
tin'  in  the  summer-house,  all  alone,  'till  the  rain  began 
to  fall — I  guess  she  got  a  good  soaking  going  home.  I 
didn't  think  much  about  her ;  it  was  Saturday,  and  I 
thought  likely  she  was  taking  a  holiday,  and  there's 
many  people  like  to  come  here,  it's  so  pleasant.  But 
what's  brought  her  here  again  to-day  is  more'n  I  can. 
guess.  Do  you  know,  sir  ?" 

"  I  do  not.  I  found  her  sitting  on  the  portico  look- 
ing at  the  river.  Maybe  she  comes  out  for  a  walk  and 
stops  here  to  rest.  She  probably  feels  somewhat  at 
home,  she  has  sewed  so  much  in  the  family.  I  don't 
know  her  at  all,  myself;  I  never  spoke  to  her  until  just 
now.  Did  you  get  much  acquainted  with  her,  when 
she  was  in  the  house  ?" 

"  I  never  spoke  to  her  above  a  dozen  times.  I  wasn't 
at  the  house  much,  and  she  was  always  at  work.  She 
seemed  fast  with  her  needle,  and  a  girl  who  minded 
her  own  business.  I  thought  she  was  rather  proud,  for 
a  seamstress — she  was  handsome,  and  I  reckon  she 
knew  it.  She's  getting  thinner ;  she  had  red  spots  on 
her  cheeks,  Saturday,  that  I  didn't  like — looked  con- 
sumptive." 

"  Did  the  family  treat  her  with  particular  kindness  ?" 
It  was  as  near  as  I  cared  to  put  into  words  what  I  was 
thinking  of. 

"  You  know  it's  in  the  whole  Moreland  race  to  be 
generous  and  kind  to  those  under  them.  I've  known 
Henry  more  than  once,  when  the  family  was  going  out 
for  a  drive,  to  insist  upon  Miss  Sullivan's  taking  a  seat 
in  the  carriage — but  never  when  he  was  going  alone. 
I  heard  him  tell  his  mother  that  the  poor  girl  looked 


46  THE   DEAD   LETTEB. 

tired,  as  if  she  needed  a  breath  of  air  and  a  bit  of  free- 
dom, and  the  kind-hearted  lady  would  laugh  at  her 
son,  but  do  as  he  said.  It  was  just  like  him.  But  I'd 
stake  my  everlasting  futur'  that  he  never  took  any  ad- 
vantage of  her  feelings,  if  it's  that  you're  thinking  of, 
Mr.  Rcdfield." 

"  So  would  I,  Mrs.  Scott.  There  is  no  one  can  havo 
a  higher  respect  for  the  character  of  that  noble  young 
gentleman,  than  I.  I  would  resent  an  insult  to  his 
memory  more  quickly  than  if  he  had  been  my  brother. 
But,  as  you  say,  there  is  something  queer  in  the  notions 
of  Miss  Sullivan.  I  know  that  I  can  trust  your  d:  - 
tion,  Mrs.  Scott,  for  I  have  heard  it  well  spoken  of;  do 
not  say  any  thing  to  others,  not  even  to  your  huslnmd, 
but  keep  a  watch  on  that  person  if  she  should  come 
here  any  more.  Report  to  me  what  she  does,  and  what 
spot  she  frequent*." 

"  I  will  do  so,  sir.  But  I  don't  think  any  harm  of 
her.  She  may  have  been  unfortunate  enough  to  think 
too  much  of  the  kindness  with  whieh  lie  treated  her. 
If  so,  I  pity  her — she  could  hardly  help  it,  poor  thing. 
Henry  Moreland  was  a  young  gentleman  a  good  many 
people  loved." 

She  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes  in  a  fresh  burst 
of  tears.  Wishing  her  good-morning,  I  turned  toward 
the  village,  hardly  earing  what  I  should  do  m  ,  M 
Scott  was  an  American  woman,  and  one  to  be  truMi-d  ; 
I  felt  that  she  would  be  the  best  detective  I  could  ]>laoe 
at  that  spot. 

When  I  reached  the  office,  on  my  homeward  r. 
went  in.  Mr.  Argyll  was  there  alone,  his  lu-ad  leaning 
on  his  hand,  his  face  anxious  and  worn,  his  brow  con- 
tracted in  deep  thought  As  soon  as  I  came  in,  he 
sprung  up,  closed  the  outer  door,  and  said  to  me,  in  a 
low  voice, 

M  Richard,  another  strange  thing  has  occurred." 


BOBBED.  47 

I  stared  at  him,  afraid  to  ask  what. 

"  I  have  been  robbed  of  two  thousand  dollars." 

"  When  and  how  ?" 

"  That  is  what  I  do  not  know.  Four  days  ago  I 
drew  that  amount  in  bills  from  the  Park  Bank.  I  placed 
it,  in  a  roll,  just  as  I  received  it,  in  my  library  desk,  at 
home.  I  locked  the  desk,  and  have  carried  the  key 
in  my  pocket.  The  desk  has  been  locked,  as  usual, 
every  time  that  I  have  gone  to  it.  How  long  the  money 
has  been  gone,  I  can  not  say  ;  I  never  looked  after  it, 
since  placing  it  there,  until  about  an  hour  ago.  I  wanted 
some  cash  for  expenses  this  afternoon,  and  going  for  it, 
the  roll  was  gone." 

"  Haven't  you  mislaid  it  ?" 

"  No.  I  have  one  drawer  for  my  cash,  and  I  placed 
it  there.  I  remember  it  plainly  enough.  It  has  been 
stolen" —  and  he  sat  down  in  his  chair  with  a  heavy 
sigh.  "  That  money  was  for  my  poor  Eleanor.  She 
was  to  complete  her  wedding  outfit  this  week,  and  the 
two  thousand  dollars  was  for  refurnishing  the  place  out 
at  the  Grove.  I  don't  care  for  the  loss  so  much — she 
doesn't  need  it  now — but  it's  singular — at  this  time !" 

He  looked  up  at  me,  vague  suspicions  which  he  could 
not  shape  floating  in  his  brain. 

"  Who  knew  of  your  having  the  money  ?" 

"  No  one,  that  I  am  aware  of,  except  my  nephew. 
He  drew  it  for  me  when  he  went  down  to  the  city  last 
Wednesday." 

"  Could  you  identify  the  money  ?" 

"  Not  all  of  it.  I  only  remember  that  there  was  one 
five  hundred  dollar  bill  in  the  package,  a  fresh  issue  of 
the  Park  Bank,  of  which,  possibly,  they  may  have  the 
number.  The  rest  was  city  money  of  various  denomi- 
nations and  banks.  I  can  think  of  but  one  thing  which 
seems  probable.  James  must  have  been  followed  from 
the  city  by  some  professional  thief,  who  saw  him  obtain 


48  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

the  money,  and  kept  an  eye  upon  it,  waiting  for  a  suit- 
able opportunity,  until  it  was  deposited  in  the  desk. 
The  key  is  a  common  one,  which  could  be  easily  dupli- 
cated, and  we  are  so  careless  in  this  quiet  community 
that  a  thief  might  enter  at  almost  any  hour  of  the  night. 
Perhaps  the  same  villain  dogged  poor  Henry  in  hopes 
of  another  harvest." 

"  You  forget  that  there  was  no  attempt  to  rob  Henry." 

"  True — true.  Yet  the  murderer  may  have  been 
frightened  away  before  he  had  secured  his  prize." 

v-In  which  case,  he  would  have  returned,  as  the  body 
remained  undiscovered  all  night." 

*'  It  may  be  so.  I  am  dizzy  with  thinking  it  over 
and  over." 

"  Try  and  not  think  any  more,  dear  sir,"  I  said, 
gently.  "  You  are  feverish  and  ill  now.  I  am  going, 
this  afternoon,  with  the  friends  to  the  city,  and  I  will 
put  the  police  on  the  watch  for  the  money.  We  wil1 
get  the  number  of  the  large  bill,  if  possible,  from  the 
bank,  and  I  will  have  investigations  made  as  to  the 
passengers  of  Wednesday  on  the  train  with  James. 
Have  you  said  any  thing  to  him  about  your  loss  ?" 

"  I  have  not  seen  him  sinci-  I  madf  ilu«  discovery. 
You  may  tell  him  if  you  see  him  first  ;  and  do  what 
you  can,  Richard,  for  I  feel  as  weak  as  a  child." 


CARRYING   AWAY  THE   DEAD.  49 


CHAPTER   V. 

MR.    BURTON,   THE    DETECTIVE. 

WHEN  I  came  out  of  the  office,  I  encountered  James 
on  the  steps,  for  the  first  time  that  day.  I  could  not 
stop  to  make  known  the  robbery  to  him,  and  telling 
him  that  his  uncle  wished  to  see  him  a  few  minutes,  I 
hurried  to  my  boarding-house,  where  I  had  barely  time 
to  take  some  lunch  in  my  room,  while  packing  a  small 
bag  to  be  sent  to  the  cars,  before  hurrying  back  to  Mr. 
Argyll's  to  attend  the  funeral  escort  to  the  train.  James 
and  I  were  two  of  the  eight  pall-bearers,  yet  neither  of 
us  could  summon  fortitude  to  enter  the  parlor  where 
the  body  lay  ;  I  believe  that  James  had  not  yet  looked 
upon  the  corpse.  We  stood  outside,  on  the  steps  of 
the  piazza,  only  taking  our  share  of  the  burden  after 
the  coffin  was  brought  out  into  the  yard.  While  we 
stood  there,  among  many  others,  waiting,  I  chanced  to 
observe  his  paleness  and  restlessness  ;  he  tore  his  black 
gloves  in  putting  them  on  ;  I  saw  his  fingers  trembling. 
As  for  me,  my  whole  being  seemed  to  pause,  as  a  single, 
pi-olonged  shriek  rung  out  of  the  darkened  mansion  and 
floated  off  on  the  sunshine  up  to  the  ear  of  God.  They 
were  taking  the  lover  away  from  his  bride.  The  next 
moment  the  coffin  appeared ;  I  took  my  place  by  its 
side,  and  we  moved  away  toward  the  depot,  passing 
over  the  very  spot  where  the  corpse  was  found.  James 
was  a  step  in  advance  of  me,  and  as  we  came  to  the 
place,  some  strong  inward  recoil  made  him  pause,  then 
step  aside  and  walk  around  the  ill-starred  spot.  I  no- 
ticed it,  not  only  for  the  momentary  confusion  into 
which  it  threw  the  line,  but  because  I  had  never  sup- 
posed him  susceptible  to  superstitious  or  imaginative 
influences. 
3 


50  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

A  private  car  had  been  arranged  for.  James  and  I 
occupied  one  seat;  the  swift  motion  of  the  train  was 
opposed  to  the  idea  of  death;  it  had  an  exhilarating  ef- 
fect upon  my  companion,  whose  paleness  passed  away, 
and  who  began  to  experience  a  reaction  after  his  de- 
pression of  feeling.  He  talked  to  me  incessantly  upon 
trifling  subjects  which  I  do  not  now  recall,  and  in  that 
low,  yet  sharp  voice  which  is  most  easily  distinguished 
through  the  clatter  of  a  moving  train.  The  necessity 
for  attending  to  him — for  making  answers  to  irrelevant 
questions,  when  my  mind  was  preoccupied,  annoyed 
me.  My  thoughts  centered  about  the  coffin,  and  its 
inmate,  taking  his  last  ride  under  circumstances  so  dif- 
ferent from  those  under  which  he  had  set  out,  only 
two  days  ago,  to  meet  her  whom  his  heart  adored ; 
whose  hand  ho  never  clasped — whose  lips  he  never 
touched — the  fruition  of  whose  hopes  was  cut  off  ut- 
terly— whose  fate,  henceforth,  was  among  the  mysteri- 
ous paths  of  the  great  eternity. 

I  could  not,  for  an  instant,  feel  the  least  lightness  of 
heart.  My  nature  was  too  sympathetic  ;  the  currents 
of  my  young  blood  flowed  too  warmly,  lor  me  to  terl 
otherwise  than  deeply  affected  by  the  catastrophe.  My 
eyes  shed  inward  tears  at  the  sight  of  the  parents  sit- 
ting in  advance  of  us,  their  heads  bowed  beneath  the 
stroke;  and,  oh!  my  heart  shed  tears  of  blood  at 
thought  of  Eleanor,  left  behind  us  to  the  utter  darkness 
of  a  night  which  had  fallen  while  it  was  yet  morning. 

Musing  upon  Acr,  I  wondered  that  her  cousin  James 
could  throw  off*  the  troubles  of  others  as  he  did,  inter- 
esting himself  in  passing  trifles.  I  have  said  that  I 
never  liked  him  much;  but  in  this  I  was  an  exception 
to  the  general  rule.  He  was  an  almost  universal  1 1\ .  •]•- 
ite.  At  least,  he  seldom  failed  to  please  and  win  those 
for  whom  he  exerted  himself  to  be  agreeable.  His 
voice  was  soft  and  well  modulated — such  a  voice  as, 


UNSEEMLY     LEVITY.  51 

should  one  hear  it  from  another  apartment,  would  make 
him  wish  to  see  the  speaker  ;  his  manner  was  gracious 
and  flattering.  I  had  often  wondered  why  his  evident 
passion  for  Eleanor  had  not  secured  her  interest  in 
return,  before  she  knew  Henry  Moreland,  and  had 
answered  myself  that  it  was  one  of  two  reasons  :  either 
their  cousinly  intercourse  had  invested  him,  to  her,  with 
the  feelings  of  a  brother  or  relative,  or  her  fine  percep- 
tions, being  the  superior  woman  which  she  was,  had 
unconsciously  led  her  to  a  true  estimate  of  his  qualities. 
This  day  I  felt  less  affinity  for  him  than  ever  before,  as 
I  gazed  at  his  dark,  thin  features,  and  met  the  light  of 
eyes  brilliant,  unsteady  and  cold.  That  intense  selfish- 
ness which  I  had  secretly  attributed  to  him,  Avas  now, 
to  my  perhaps  too  acute  apprehension,  painfully  appar- 
ent. In  my  secret  heart,  as  I  listened  to  his  light  re- 
marks, and  perceived  the  rise  of  spirits  which  he  hardly 
endeavored  to  check,  I  accused  him  of  gladness  that  a 
rival  was  out  of  the  way,  and  that  the  chances  were 
again  open  for  the  hand  of  his  beautiful  and  wealthy 
cousin.  At  first  he  had  been  shocked,  as  we  all  were ; 
but  now  that  he  had  time  to  view  the  occurrence  with 
an  eye  to  the  future,  I  believed  that  he  was  already  cal- 
culating the  results  with  regard  to  his  own  hopes  and 
wishes.  I  turned  from  him  with  a  feeling  of  aversion. 

After  neglecting  to  reply  to  him  until  he  was  obliged 
to  drop  the  one-sided  conversation,  I  recollected  that  I 
had  not  yet  spoken  to  him  in  regard  to  his  uncle's  loss ; 
so  I  said  to  him  quite  suddenly, 

"  Mr.  Argyll  has  been  robbed  of  a  sum  of  money." 

An  inexplicable  expression  flashed  into  his  face  and 
passed  off ;  it  went  as  soon  as  it  came. 

"  So  he  informed  me,  just  before  we  started.  He 
says  that  you  will  put  the  police  on  the  track  of  it — 
that  possibly  the  five-hundred  dollar  bill  will  be  identi- 
fied. It  was  taken  from  his  desk,  it  appears." 


52  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

"Yes;  I  wonder  what  will  happen  next." 

"Ay!  I  wonder  what  will." 

"Who  knows  what  :i  narrow  escape  you  may  have 
had,"  said  I.  "It  is  well  that  you  came  here  in  limad 
daylight;  else,  like  poor  Henry,  you  might  have  fallen 
a  victim  to  a  blow  in  the  dark.  Mr.  Argyll  thinks  you 
must  have  been  followed  from  the  city  by  some  profes- 
sional burglar." 

"  He  thinks  so  ?"  he  asked,  while  the  shadow  of  a 
smile  just  showed  a  second  in  the  mirror  of  his 
it  was  as  if  there  was  a  smile  in  his  heart,  an«l  a  reflec- 
tion from  its  invisible  self  fell   athwa/t   his  eyes  ;    but 
he  turned  them  away  immediately. 

"It's  queer,"  he  resumed;  "horribly  queer;  don't 
you  think  so?  I  saw  that  money  in  the  desk  Friday 
evening.  Uncle  asked  me  to  hold  the  lamp  a  moment, 
while  he  found  some  papers,  and  I  noticed  the  roll  of 
bills  lying  in  his  cash-drawer,  ju^t  as  I  hail  given  them 
to  him.  It  must  have  been  abstracted  Saturday  or 
Sunday — it's  queer — confoundedly  so  !  There  must  be 
some  great  villain  lurking  in  our  midst !" — this  \;\^\  M-n- 
tenee  he  uttered  with  an  emphasis,  looking  me  through 
with  his  black  eyes. 

There  was  suspicion  in  his  gaze,  and  my  own  fell  be- 
fore it.  Innocence  itself  will  blush  if  obliged  to  con- 
front the  insult  of  accusation.  I  had  had  many  wild, 
and  doubtless  many  wrong  and  suspi<-i<>us  thoughts 
about  various  persons,  since  the  discovery  of  the  mur- 
der ;  and  this  was  turning  the  tables  on  me  rather  sud- 
denly. It  never  occurred  to  me  that  among  the  dozens 
upon  whom  vague  and  flying  suspicions  might  alight, 
might  be  myself. 

"  There  is  an  awful  mystery  somewhere,"  I  stam- 
mered. 

"  Humph !  yes,  there  is.  My  uncle  Argyll  is  just  the 
man  to  be  wronged  by  some  one  of  his  many  friends 


ADVICE.  53 

and  dependents.  He  is  too  confiding,  too  unsuspecting 
of  others — as  I  have  told  him.  He  has  been  duped 
often — but  this — this  is  too  bad  !" 

I  looked  up  again,  and  sharply,  to  see  what  he  meant. 
If  he  intended  covertly  to  insinuate  that  /  was  open  to 
imputation  as  one  of  the  "  friends  or  dependents  "  who 
could  wrong  a  benefactor,  I  wished  to  understand  him. 
A  friend,  I  knew,  Mr.  Argyll  was  to  me  ;  a  friend  to  be 
grateful  for  ;  but  I  was  no  dependent  upon  his  bounty, 
as  his  nephew  was,  and  the  hot  blood  rushed  to  my  face, 
the  fire  to  my  eye,  as  I  answered  back  the  cool  gaze  of 
James  with  a  haughty  stare. 

"  There  is  no  love  lost  between  us,  Richard,"  he  said, 
presently,  "  which  is  principally  your  fault ;  but  I  am 
friendly  to  you  ;  and  as  a  friend,  I  would  suggest  that 
you  do  not  make  yourself  conspicuous  in  this  affair.  If 
you  should  put  yourself  forward  at  all,  being  so  young, 
and  having,  apparently,  so  small  an  interest  in  the  mat- 
ter, you  may  bring  unpleasant  remark  upon  yourself. 
Let  us  stand  back  and  allow  our  elders  to  do  the  work. 
As  to  that  money,  whether  it  has  or  has  not  any  con- 
nection with  the — the  other  affair,  time  will  perhaps 
show.  Let  the  police  do  what  they  can  with  it — my 
advice  to  you  is  to  keejD  in  the  background." 

"  Your  course  may  be  prudent,  James,"  was  my 
reply ;  "  I  do  not  ask  your  approbation  of  mine.  But 
to  one  thing  I  have  made  up  my  mind.  So  long  as  I 
live,  and  the  murderer  of  Henry  Moreland  is  undiscov- 
ered, I  will  never  rest.  In  Eleanor's  name,  I  consecrate 
myself  to  this  calling.  I  can  face  the  whole  world  in 
her  behalf,  and  fear  nothing." 

He  turned  away  with  a  sneer,  busying  himself  with 
the  prospect  from  the  window.  During  the  rest  of  the 
ride  we  said  little  ;  his  words  had  given  me  a  curious 
sensation ;  I  had  sustained  so  many  shocks  to  my  feel- 
ings within  the  last  forty-eight  hours,  that  this  new  one 


54  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

of  finding  myself  under  the  eye  of  suspicion,  mingled 
in  with  the  perplexing  whirl  of  the  whole,  until  I  al- 
most began  to  doubt  my  own  identity  and  that  of 
others.  A  vision  of  Leesy  Sullivan,  whose  wild  foot- 
steps might  still  be  tracking  hills  and  fields,  hovered 
before  me — and  out  of  all  this  distraction,  my  thoughts 
settled  upon  Eleanor.  I  prayed  God  earnestly  to  be 
with  her  in  this  hour  ;  either  to  strengthen  her  heart  and 
brain  to  bear  her  afnict  ion  without  UtiDgtOroini  lieneath 
the  weight,  or  to  take  her  at  once  to  Himself,  where 
Henry  awaited  her  in  the  mansions  of  their  eternal  home. 

The  arrival  of  the  train  at  Thirtieth  street  recalled 
me  to  my  present  duties.  Carriages  were  in  waiting  to 
convey  the  coffin  and  its  escort  to  the  house  of  the 
parents,  the  funeral  being  arranged  for  the  following 
day.  I  saw  the  orticcr  who  had  gone  down  from  Blank- 
vine  in  the  inoriiiiiLT,  waiting  in  the  depot  to  speak  to 
me;  but  I  did  not  need  to  be  told  that  he  had  not 
found  the  sewing-girl  at  her  place  of  business.  I  made 
an  appointment  to  meet  him  in  the  evening  at  the  Met- 
ropolitan, and  took  my  place  in  the  sad  procession  to 
the  house  of  the  Morulands. 

I  was  anxious  to  give  notice  of  the  robbery  at  the 
bank,  and  to  ascertain  if  they  could  identity  any  of  the 
money,  especially  the  large  bill,  whieh,  being  ne\v,  I 
hoped  they  would  have  on  record.  Banking  In  »ni  s  win- 
over,  however,  for  the  day,  and  it  was  only  l»y  intrud- 
ing the  matter  upon  the  notice  of  .Mr.  Moreland  t|,at  I 
could  get  any  thing  accomplished.  Thi-  I  decided  to 
do;  when  he  told  me  that,  liv  ir<>ing  din-etlv  to  tin- 
bank,  bethought  I  could  gainacces-  to  the  cashier  ;  :;nd 
if  not,  he  gave  me  his  address,  so  that  I  might  seek  him 
at  his  iv-idencc.  Mr.  Moreland  also  ad\  : 
take  with  me  some  competent  detect i\e,  who  should  hi- 
witness  to  the  Statement  of  the  ca>liier  with  regard  to 
the  money  paid  to  James  Argyll,  on  his  uncle's  draft, 


"  UNMANNED."  55 

and  be  employed  to  put  the  rest  of  the  force  on  the 
lookout  for  it,  or  any  portion  of  it  which  was  identi- 
fiable. He  gave  me  the  name  of  an  officer  with  whom 
he  had  a  chance  acquaintance,  and  of  whose  abilities  he 
had  a  high  opinion  ;  telling  me  to  make  free  use  of  his 
name  and  influence,  if  he  had  any,  with  him,  and  the 
police. 

"  And  please,  Mr.  Redfield — or  James  here,  if  you 
should  be  too  busy — make  out  an  advertisement  for  the 
morning  papers,  offering  a  reward  of  five  thousand 
dollars  for  the  detection  and  conviction  of  the — the — 
murderer." 

James  was  standing  by  us  during  the  conversation ; 
and  I  almost  withdrew  my  verdict  upon  his  selfishness, 
as  I  marked  how  he  shrunk  when  the  eye  of  the  be- 
reaved father  rested  upon  him,  and  how  vainly  he 
endeavored  to  appear  calm  at  the  affecting  spectacle  of 
the  gray-haired  gentleman  forcing  his  quivering  lips  to 
utter  the  word — "  murderer."  He  trembled  much  more 
thun  myself,  as  each  of  us  wrung  Mr.  Moreland's  hand, 
and  departed  down  the  steps. 

"It  unmanned  him,"  he  said,  stopping  a  moment  on 
the  pavement  to  wipe  the  perspiration  from  his  brow, 
though  the  day  was  not  at  all  warm.  "  I  believe,"  he 
added,  as  he  walked  along,  "  that  if  the  person  who 
resolves  to  commit  a  crime  would  reflect  on  all  the 
consequences  of  that  act,  it  would  remain  undone  for^ 
ever.  But  he  does  not.  He  sees  an  object  in  the  way 
of  his  wishes,  and  he  thrusts  it  aside,  reckless  of  the 
ruin  which  will  overwhelm  surrounding  things,  until 
he  sees  the  wreck  about  him.  Then  it  is  too  late  for 
remorse — to  the  devil  with  it.  But  I  needn't  philoso- 
phize before  you,  Richard,  who  have  precociously 
earned  that  privilege  of  wisdom  " — -with  that  disagree- 
able half-laugh  of  his — "  only  I  was  thinking  how  the 
guilty  party  must  have  felt  could  he  have  seen  Henry'a 


58  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

father  as  we  saw  him  just  now,"  and  again  I  felt  his 
eye  upon  me.  Certainly,  tin-re  seemed  no  prospect  of 
our  friendship  increasing.  I  would  rather  have  dis- 
pensed with  his  company,  while  I  put  my  full  energies 
into  the  business  before  me;  but  it  was  quite  natural 
that  he  should  expect  to  accompany  me  on  an  errand 
in  wh'u-h  he  must  have  as  deep  an  interest  as  my- 
self. Coming  out  of  the  avenue  upon  Broadway  we 
took  a  stage,  ridlhg  down  as  far  as  Grand  street,  when 
we  got  out  and  walked  to  the  office  of  the  detective- 
police. 

The  chief  was  not  in  at  the  moment  of  our  entrance  ; 
we  were  received  by  a  subordinate  and  questioned  as 
to  our  visit.  The  morning  papers  had  heralded  the 
melancholy  and  mysterious  murder  through  the  eity; 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  persons  had  already  marveled 
over  the  boldness  and  success,  the  silciiee  and  siidden- 
neSS  with  which  tin-  deed  had  been  done,  leaving  not  a 
clue  by  which  to  trace  the  perpetrator.  It  had  lieen 
the  sensation  of  the  day  throughout  New  York  and  its 
environs.  The  public  mind  was  busy  with  conjectures 
as  to  the  motive  for  the  crime.  And  this  was  to  !.<• 
one  of  the  sharp  thorns  pressed  into  the  hearts  of  the 
distressed  friends  of  the  murdered  man.  Suddenly, 
into  the  garish  light  of  day,  beneath  the  pitiless  gaze 
of  a  million  curious  eyes,  was  dragged  every  word,  or 
net,  or  circumstance  of  the  life  so  abruptly  closed.  It 
*was  necessary  to  the  investigation  (.f  tin-  atl'air,  that 
the  most  secret  pa_u'es  ,,f  his  history  should  be  read 
out — and  it  i>  not  in  the  nature  of  a  daily  paper  to 
neglect  such  opportunities  for  turning  an  honest  penny, 
let  me  say  that  not  one  character  in  ten  thousand 
could  have  stood  this  trial  by  lire  as  did  Henry  More- 
land's.  No  wronged  hireling,  no  open  enemy,  no  secret 
intrigue,  no  gambling  debts — not  one  blot  on  the  bright 
record  of  his  amiable,  Christian 


MR.  BURTON.  67 

To  return  to  the  detective-office.  Our  errand  at 
once  received  attention  from  the  person  in  charge,  who 
sent  a  messenger  after  the  chief.  He  also  informed  us 
that  several  of  their  best  men  had  gone  up  to  Blank- 
ville  that  afternoon  to  confer  with  the  authorities  there. 
The  public  welfare  demanded,  as  well  as  the  interest 
of  private  individuals,  that  the  guilty  should  be  ferret- 
ed out,  if  possible.  The  apparent  impunity  with  which 
the  crime  had  been  committed  was  startling,  making 
every  one  feel  it  a  personal  matter  to  aid  in  discour- 
aging any  more  such  practices ;  besides,  the  police 
knew  that  their  eiforts  would  be  well  rewarded. 

"While  we  sat  talking  with  the  official,  I  noticed  the 
only  other  inmate  of  the  room,  who  made  a  peculiar 
impression  upon  me  for  which  I  could  not  account. 

He  was  a  large  man,  of  middle  age,  with  a  florid 
face  and  sandy  hair.  He  was  quietly  dressed  in  the 
ordinary  manner  of  the  season,  and  with  nothing  to 
mark  him  from  a  thousand  other  men  of  similar  appear- 
ance, unless  it  was  the  expression  of  his  small,  blue- 
gray  eyes,  whose  glance,  Avhen  I  happened  to  encounter 
it,  seemed  not  to  be  looking  at  me  but  into  me.  How- 
ever, he  turned  it  away,  and  occupied  himself  with 
looking  through  the  window  at  the  passers-by.  He 
appeared  to  be  a  stranger,  awaiting,  like  ourselves,  the 
coming  of  the  chief. 

Desiring  to  secure  the  services  of  the  particular 
detective  whom  Mr.  Moreland  had  recommended,  I 
asked  the  subordinate  in  attendance,  if  he  could  inform 
me  where  Mr.  Burton  was  to  be  found. 

"  Burton  ?  I  don't  know  of  any  one  of  that  name, 
I  think — if  I  may  except  my  stage  experience  with 
Mr.  Toodles,"  he  added,  with  a  smile,  called  up  by 
some  passing  vision  of  his  last  visit  to  the  theater. 

"Then  there  is  no  Mr.  Burton  belongs  to  your 
force  ?" 

3* 


68  THK   DEAD   LETTER. 

"  Not  that  I  am  acquainted  with.  He  may  be  one 
of  us,  for  all  that.  We  don't  pretend  to  know  our  own 
brothers  here.  You  can  ask  Mr.  Browne  when  he 
comes  in." 

All  this  time  the  stranger  by  tin-  window  sat  motion- 
less, absorbed  in  looking  upon  the  throng  of  persons 
and  vehicles  in  the  street  beneath  ;  and  now  I,  having 
nothing  else  to  do,  regarded  him.  I  felt  a  magnetism 
emanate  t'n>m  him,  as  from  a  manufactory  of  vital  forces  ; 
I  felt,  instinctively,  that  lie  was  possessed  of  an  iron 
will  and  indomitable  courage  ;  I  was  speculating,  ac- 
cording to  my  dreamy  habit,  upon  his  characteristics, 
when  the  chief  appeared,  and  we,  that  is.  James  and 
myself,  laid  our  case  before  him — at  the  same  time  I 
mentioned  that  Mr.  Mori-land  had  desired  me  to  ask 
for  Mr.  Burton  to  be  detailed  to  aid  our  in\  'estimations. 

"Ah  !  yes,"  said  Mr.  Browne,  "there  are  not  many 
outsiders  who  know  that  person.  He  is  my  right  hand, 
but  I  don't  let  the  left  know  what  he  d«>eth.  Mr. 
Moreland  had  his  services  once.  I  remember,  in  tracking 
some  burglars  who  had  entered  his  banking-house. 
Poor  young  Moreland  !  I've  seen  him  often!  Shock- 
ing affair,  truly.  We  mustn't  rest  till  we  know  more 
about  it.  I  only  hope  we  may  be  of  service  to  his 
afflicted  father.  Burton  is  just  here,  fortunately."  and 
he  beckoned  to  the  very  stranger  sitting  in  the  window, 
who  had  overheard  the  inquiries  made  for  him  without 
the  slightest  demonstration  that  such  a  being  had  any 
existence  as  far  M  he  was  concern. ••!.  and  who  now 
slowly  arose,  and  approached  us.  We  four  went  into 
an  inner  room,  where  we  were  introduced  to  each  other, 
and  drawing  up  our  chairs  in  a  close  circle,  we  b. 
in  low  voices,  the  di-cu--sii.il  of  our  bii-:: 

Mr.  Broun.-  was  voluble  when  he  heard   that    a   rob- 
bery   had   been    committed    in     Mr.    Arj\  IP- 
He  bad  no  doubt,  he  said,  that  the  two  crimes  were 


THE   RESTRAINED   WON.  59 

connected,  and  it  would  be  strange,  indeed,  if  nothing 
could  be  discovered  relating  to  either  of  them.  He 
hoped  that  the  lesser  crime  would  be  the  means  of  be- 
traying the  greater.  He  trusted  the  rogue,  whoever 
he  or  she  might  be,  had,  in  this  imprudent  act,  done 
something  to  betray  himself.  He  had  hopes  of  the 
five-hundred  dollar  bill. 

Mr.  Burton  said  very  little,  beyond  asking  two  or 
three  questions ;  but  he  was  a  good  listener.  Much  of 
the  time  he  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  James,  who 
did  a  good  deal  of  the  talking.  I  could  not,  for  the 
life  of  me,  tell  whether  James  was  conscious  of  those 
blue-gray  eyes ;  if  he  was,  they  did  not  much  disturb 
him ;  he  made  his  statements  in  a  calm  and  lucid  man- 
ner, gazing  into  Mr.  Bui-ton's  face  with  a  clear  and 
open  look.  After  a  while,  the  latter  began  to  grow 
uneasy  ;  powerful  as  was  his  physical  and  mental  frame, 
I  saw  a  trembling  of  both  ;  he  forced  himself  to  remain 
quiet  in  his  chair — but  to  me  he  had  the  air  of  a  lion, 
who  sees  its  prey  but  a  little  distance  off,  and  who 
trembles  with  restraint.  The  light  in  his  eye  narrowed 
down  to  one  gleam  of  concentrated  fire — a  steely, 
glittering  point — he  watched  the  rest  of  us  and  said 
little.  If  I  had  been  a  guilty  man  I  should  have  shrunk 
from  that  observation,  through  the  very  walls,  or  out 
of  a  five-story  window,  if  there  had  been  no  other  way ; 
it  struck  me  that  it  would  have  been  unbearable  to  any 
accusing  conscience  ;  but  my  own  mind  being  burdened 
with  no  weightier  sins  than  a  few  boyish  follies — saving 
the  selfishness  and  earthliness  which  make  a  part  of  all 
human  natures — I  felt  quite  free,  breathing  easily, 
while  I  noticed,  with  interest,  the  silent  change  going 
on  in  the  detective. 

More  and  more  like  a  lion  about  to  spring,  he  grew ; 
but  whether  his  prey  was  near  at  hand  and  visible,  or 
far  away  and  visible  only  to  his  mental  gaze,  I  could 


00  THE    DEAD   LETTEK. 

not  tell.  I  fairly  jumped,  when  he  at  last  rose  quickly 
to  his  feet ;  I  expected  to  see  him  bound  upon  some 
guilty  ghost  to  us  intangible,  and  shakr  it  to  ji'u>ces  in 
an  honest  rage ;  but  whatever  was  the  passion  within 
him,  he  controlled  it,  saying  only,  a  little  impatiently, 

"Enough,  gentlemen,  we  have  talked  enough! 
Browne,  will  you  go  with  Mr.  Argyll  t«>  the  bank,  ami 
see  about  that  money?  I  do  not  wish  to  be  known 
there  as  belonging  to  your  force.  I  will  walk  to  his 
hotel  with  Mr.  Redfield,  and  you  can  meet  us  there  at 
any  hour  you  choose  to  appoint." 

"  It  will  take  until  tea-time  to  attend  to  the  bank. 
Say  about  eight  o'clock,  then,  we  will  be  at  the — " 

"  Metropolitan,"  said  I,  ami  the  quartette  paiMed, 
half  going  up  and  half  going  down  town. 

On  our  way  to  the  hotel  we  tell  into  an  easy  conver- 
sation on  topics  entirely  removed  iVom  the  one  which 
absorbed  the  gravest  thoughts  of  both.  Mr.  l>urt<>n 
did  more  talking  now  than  he  had  d<me  at  the  office, 
perhaps  with  the  object  of  making  me  express  myself 
freely  ;  though  if  so,  he  managed  \\ith  so  much  tact 
that  his  wish  was  not  apparent,  lie  had  but  poor  sue- 
:  the  calamity  of  our  house  lay  too  heaviK  mi  me  for 
me  to  forget  it  in  an  instant  ;  but  1  \\as  constantly  sur- 
i  at  the  eharacter  of  the  man  whose  acquaintance 
making,  lie  was  intelligent,  even  educated,  a 
gentleman  in  language  and  manner — a  quite  different 
person,  in  fact,  from  what  1  !.-d  in  a  member 

of  the  deteotive-polioa. 

Shut  up  in  the  private  parlor  which  I  obtained  at  the 
Metropolitan,  the  subject  of  tin-  murder  was  again 
broached  and  thoroughly  diseus-n  i.  Iff,  I'.nit.n  w.-n 
my  confidence  so  inevitably  that  I  felt  no  hesitation  in 
nnvailing  to  him  the  duine-tic  hearth  of  Mr.  Argyll, 
whenever  the  habits  or  circumstances  of  the  family 
were  consulted  in  their  bearing  upon  the  mystery.  Ami 


A   6ECEET   EEAD.  61 

when  he  said  to  me,  fixing  his  eye  upon  me,  but  speak- 
ing gently, 

"  You,  too,  loved  the  young  lady," — I  neither  blushed 
nor  grew  angry.  That  penetrating  eye  had  read  the 
secret  of  my  heart,  which  had  never  been  spoken  or 
written,  yet  I  did  not  feel  outraged  that  he  had  dared 
to  read  it  out  to  me.  If  he  could  find  any  matter 
against  me  in  that  holiest  truth  of  my  existence,  he  was 
welcome  to  it. 

"  Be  it  so,"  I  said  ;  "  that  is  with  myself,  and  no  one 
else." 

"  There  are  others  who  love  her,"  he  continued,  "  but 
there  is  a  difference  in  the  quality  of  love.  There  is 
that  which  sanctifies,  and  something,  called  by  the  same 
name,  which  is  an  excuse  for  infinite  perfidy.  In  my 
experience  I  have  found  the  love  of  woman  and  the 
love  of  money  at  the  bottom  of  most  mischief— the 
greed  of  gain  is  by  far  the  commonest  and  strongest ; 
and  when  the  two  are  combined,  there  is  motive  enough 
for  the  darkest  tragedy.  But  you  spoke  of  a  young 
woman,  of  whom  you  have  suspicions." 

I  told  Mr.  Burton  that  in  this  matter  I  trusted  to  his 
discretion  ;  that  I  had  not  brought  it  to  notice  before 
Mr.  Browne,  because  I  shrunk  from  the  danger  of  fix- 
ing a  ruinous  suspicion  upon  a  person  who  might  be 
perfectly  innocent ;  yet  that  circumstances  were  such 
as  to  demand  investigation,  which  I  was  sure  he  was 
the  person  to  carry  on.  I  then  gave  him  a  careful  ac- 
count of  every  thing  I  had  seen  or  learned  about  the 
sewing-girl.  He  agreed  with  me  that  she  ought  to  be 
placed  under  secret  surveillance.  I  told  him  that  the 
officer  from  Blankville  would  be  in  after  tea,  when  we 
could  consult  together  and  dispose  of  the  discussion  be- 
fore the  arrival  of  James  and  Mr.  Browne — and  I  then 
rung  the  bell,  ordering  a  light  supper  in  our  room. 

The  Blaiikville  official  had  nothing  to  report  of  Miss 


62  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

Sullivan,  except  that  she  had  not  arrived  either  at  her 
boarding-house  or  at  the  shop  where  she  was  emj>! 
and  her  character  stood  high  at  both  places.  She  had 
been  represented  to  him  as  a  "  strictly  proper"  person, 
very  reserved,  in  poor  health,  with  a  sad  appearance, 
and  an  excellent  workwoman — that  no  gentlemen  were 
ever  known  to  call  to  see  her,  and  that  she  never  went 
out  after  returning  to  her  boarding-house  at  tin-  close 
of  work-hours.  We  then  requested  him  to  say  nothing 
about  her  to  his  brother  officers,  and  to  keep  tin-  matter 
from  the  newspapers,  as  we  should  regret  doing  an  ir- 
reparable injury  to  one  who  might  be  guilt!. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  Fates  were  in  favor  of  the  guilty. 
Mr.  Browne,  punctually  at  eight  o'clock,  reported  that 
there  was  none  of  the  money  paid  out  t«>  .lames  Argyll 
at  Mr.  Argyll's  order,  which  the  bank  would  identity — 
not  even  its  own  bill  of  five  hundred  dollars,  whieh  was 
a  recent  issue.  They  had  paid  out  such  a  bill  on  the 
draft,  but  the  number  was  not  known  to  them. 

"  However,"  said  Mr.  Browne,  "bills  of  that  denom- 
ination are  not  common,  and  wo  shall  be  on  the  look- 
out for  them,  wherever  offered." 

"  Bat  even  should  the  robber  be  discovered,  there  is 
no  proof  that  it  would  establish  any  connection  with 
the  murder.  It  may  have  been  acoincidence,"  remarked 
James.  ki  I  have  often  noticed  that  one  calamity  is 
sure  to  be  followed  by  another.  If  there  is  a  railroad 
disaster,  a  powder-mill  explosion,  a  steamer  destroyed 
by  fire,  before  the  horror  of  the  first  accident  has  done 
thrilling  our  nerves,  we  are  pretty  certain  to  be  startled 
by  another  catastrophe." 

"I,  too,"  said  Mr.  Burton,  "have  remarked  &i 
cession   of  events — echoes,   as  it    were,  f..ll..\v  in^  the 
clap  of  thunder.     And  I  have  usually  found   that,  like 
the  echoes,  there  was  a  natural  cause  for  them." 

James  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair,  arose,  pulled  aside 


A   SUGGESTION   DISMISSED.  63 

the  curtain,  and  looked  out  into  the  night.  I  had  often 
noticed  that  he  was  somewhat  superstitious ;  perhaps 
he  saw  the  eyes  of  Henry  Moreland  looking  down  at 
him  from  the  starry  hights  ;  he  twitched  the  curtains 
together  with  a  shiver,  and  came  back  to  us. 

"  It  is  not  impossible,"  he  said,  keeping  his  face  in  the 
shadow,  for  he  did  not  like  us  to  see  how  the  night  had 
affected  him,  "  that  some  one  of  the  clerks  in  Mr.  More- 
land's  'banking-house — perhaps  some  trusted  and  re- 
sponsible person — was  detected  by  Henry,  in  making 
false  entries,  or  some  other  dishonesty — and  that  to  save 
himself  the  disgrace  of  betrayal  and  dismissal,  he  has 
put  the  discoverer  out  of  the  way.  The  whole  busi- 
ness of  the  establishment  ought  to  be  thoroughly  over- 
hauled. It  appears  that  Henry  went  directly  to  the 
cars  from  the  office  ;  so  that  if  any  trouble  had  arisen, 
between  him  and  one  of  the  employees,  there  would 
have  been  no  opportunity  for  his  consulting  his  father, 
who  was  not  at  the  place  all  that  afternoon." 

"  Your  suggestion  is  good,"  said  Mr.  Browne,  "  and 
must  be  attended  to." 

"The  whereabouts  of  every  one  of  the  employees, 
down  to  the  porter,  at  the  time  of  the  murder,  are  al- 
ready accounted  for.  They  were  all  in  the  city,"  said 
Mr.  Burton,  with  precision. 

Shortly  after,  the  party  separated  for  the  night.  An 
urgent  invitation  came  from  Mr.  Moreland  for  James 
and  myself  to  stop  at  his  house  during  our  stay  in  the 
city ;  but  we  thought  it  better  not  to  disturb  the  quiet 
of  the  house  of  mourning  with  the  business  which  we 
wished  to  press  forward,  and  returned  an  answer  to 
that  effect.  It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  when  James  rec- 
ollected that  we  had  not  been  to  the  offices  of  the  daily 
journals  with  the  advertisements  which  ought  to  ap- 
pear in  the  morning.  It  was  the  work  of  a  few  minutes 
for  me  to  write  one  out,  which  we  then  copied  on  three 


04  THE   DEAD  LETTKB. 

or  four  sheets  of  paper,  and  finding  nn  errand-boy 
below,  we  dispatched  him  with  two  of  tin-  copies  to  as 
many  journals,  and  ourselves  hurrii'd  otl'with  the  others. 
I  went  to  one  establishment  and  my  companion  to 
another,  in  order  to  hasten  proceedings,  knowing  that 
it  was  doubtful  if  we  could  -«  t  them  inserted  at  that 
late  hour.  Having  >  •  my  satisfaction  with 

ray  own  errand,  I  thought  I  would  walk  over  to  the 
next  street  and  meet  .lames,  whom,  having  a  little 
further  than  I  to  cjo,  I  would  probably  meet,  returnin<_r. 
As  I  neared  the  building  to  which  he  had  -jone,  and 
•which  was  brilliantly  lighted  up  t<>r  its  night-Work,  I 
saw  .lames  come  out  on  the  pavement,  look  around  him 
an  instant,  and  then  start  oil'  in  a  direction  opposite  to 
that  which  would  lead  back  to  Broadway  and  his  hotel. 
Jle  had  not  observed  me,  \\lio  chanced  to  lie  in  shadow 
at  the  moment  ;  and  I,  without  any  particular  m 
which  I  could  analv/.c.  started  after  him,  thinking  to 
overtake  him  and  oll'rr  to  join  him  in  a  walk.  lie  went, 
however,  at  so  rapid  a  pace,  that  I  still  remained  be- 
hind. Our  course  lay  through  Nassau  and  Fulton 
Streets,  to  the  Brooklyn  ferry.  I  quickened  mv  pace 
almost  to  a  run,  as  James  passed  into  the  t'crrv •! 
for  I  saw  that  a  boat  was  alxuit  to  start  ;  but  I  had  a 
vexatious  delay  in  lindiiiLT  small  change,  so  that  I  got 
through  just  in  time  to  see  the  boat  move  oil',  .1 
himself  having  to  take  a  llyin<_r  leap  to  reach  it  ai'irr  it 
was  under  way.  At  that  hour  there  was  a  boat  only 
every  fifteen  minutes;  of  r  up  the  pursuit  ; 

and  sittit)'_'  down    at  the    end  of  the    bridge,  I    allowed 
the  cool  wind  from  the    bay  and  ri\er  to    blow   a 
my  hot    lace,  while  I  gazed   out   on    the    .lark    u 
listening  to  their  incessant  moan'mir  about  the  piers,  and 
watching  \\here  they  ^limmered  beneath   the  li^l,' 
the  opposite  shore.    The  blue  and  red  lamps  of  the 
moving  vessels,  in  my  present  mood,  had  a  weird  and 


MUSINGS.  65 

ghastly  effect ;  the  thousands  of  masts  of  the  moored 
shipping  stood  up  naked  against  the  sky,  like  a  forest 
of  blighted,  skeleton  pines.  Sadness,  the  deepest  I  had 
ever  felt  in  my  life,  fell  upon  me — sadness  too  deep  for 
any  expression.  The  shifting  water,  slipping  and  sigh- 
ing about  the  works  of  men  which  fretted  it ;  the  un- 
approachable, glittering  sky ;  the  leafless  forest,  the 
wind  fresh  from  its  ocean  solitudes — these  partially 
interpreted  it,  but  not  wholly.  Their  soul,  as  far  as 
the  soul  of  Nature  goes,  was  in  unison  with  mine  ;  but 
in  humanity  lies  a  still  deeper  deep,  rises  a  higher  hight. 
I  was  as  much  alone  as  if  nearly  a  million  fellow-crea- 
tures were  not  so  encircling  me.  I  thought  of  the 
many  tragedies  over  which  these  waters  had  closed ; 
of  the  secrets  they  had  hidden ;  of  the  many  lives 
sucked  under  these  ruthless  bridges ;  of  the  dark  crea- 
tures who  haunted  these  docks  at  evil  hours — but  most 
I  thought  of  a  distant  chamber,  where  a  girl,  who  yes- 
terday was  as  full  of  love  and  beauty  as  a  morning  rose 
is  full  of  dew  and  perfume — whose  life  ran  over  with 
light — whose  step  was  imperial  with  the  happiness  of 
youth — lay,  worn  and  pallid,  upon  her  weary  bed, 
breathing  sighs  of  endless  misery.  I  thought  of  the 
funeral  procession  which  to-morrow,  at  noon,  should 
come  by  this  road  and  travel  these  waters,  to  that  gar- 
den of  repose,  whose  white  tombstones  I  knew,  al- 
though I  could  not  see  them,  gleamed  now  under  the 
"  cold  light  of  stars." 

Thus  I  sat,  wrapped  in  musings,  until  a  policeman, 
who,  it  is  likely,  had  long  had  his  eye  upon  me,  won- 
dering if  I  were  a  suspicious  character,  called  out — 
"  Take  care  of  your  legs,  young  man !"  and  I  sprung  to 
my  feet,  as  the  return  boat  came  into  her  slip,  drifting 
up  and  bumping  sullenly  against  the  end  of  the  bridge 
where  my  legs  had  been  dangling. 

I  waited  until,  among  the  not  numerous  passengers, 


66  THE   DEAD  LETTER. 

I  perceived  James  hurrying  by,  when  I  slipped  my  hand 
into  his  arm  quietly,  saying, 

"  You  led  me  quite  a  race — what  in  the  world  have 
you  been  across  to  Brooklyn  for?" 

He  jumped  at  my  voice  and  touch;  then  grew  angry, 
as  people  are  apt  to  do  when  they  are  startled  or  fright- 
ened, after  the  shock  is  over. 

"  What  business  is  that  of  yours,  sir?  How  dare 
you  follow  me  ?  If  you  have  taken  upon  yourself  the 
office  of  spy,  let  me  know  it.*' 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  answered,  withdrawing  from 

his  arm,  "  I  walked  over  to  the  H office  to  meet 

you,  and  saw  you  walk  off  in  this  direction.  I  had  no 
particular  object  in  following  you,  and  perhaps  ou^ht 
not  to  have  done  it." 

"I  spoke  too  hastily,"  he  said,  almost  immediately. 
"  Forget  it,  Richard.  You  pounced  upon  me  so  m.cv- 
pectedly,  you  gave  me  a  nervous  shock — irritated  my 
combativcncss,  I  suppose.  I  thought,  of  course,  y..u 
had  returned  to  tin-  hotel,  and  feeling  too  restless  to  go 
back  to  my  little  bedroom,  there,  I  determined  to  try 
the  effect  of  a  ride  across  the  river.  The  bracing  an- 
nas toned  me  up.  I  believe  I  can  go  back  and  sleep '' 
—offering  his  arm  again,  wliieh  I  took,  and  we  slowly 
•  •d  our  steps  to  the  Metropolitan. 

I  will  not  pain  the  heartof  my  reader  by  forcing  him 
to  be  one  of  the  mournful  procession  which  followed 
Hi  nry  Moreland  tolas  untimely  grave.  At  two  o'clock 
of  Tuesday,  all  wa«  over.  The  \i.-tim  was  hidden 
away  from  the  face  of  the  earth  —smiling,  as  if  asleep, 
dreaming  of  his  Eleanor,  he  was  consigned  t<>  that 
darkness  from  whence  he  sh.nild  never  awaken  and  find 
her — while  the  one  who  had  brought  him  low  walked 
id  under  the  sunlight  of  heaven.  To  give  that 
guilty  creature  no  peace  was  the  purpose  of  my  heart. 

James  resolved  to  return  to  Blankville  by  the  five 


WHY    HE   WAS   A   DETECTIVE.  67 

o'clock  train.  He  looked  sick,  and  said  that  he  felt  so 
— that  the  last  trying  scene  had  "  used  him  up ;"  and 
then,  his  uncle  would  surely  want  one  of  us  to  assist 
him  at  home.  To  this  I  assented,  intending  myself  to 
stay  in  the  city  a  day  or  two,  until  Mr.  Burton  was  pre- 
pared to  go  out  to  Blankville  with  me. 

After  such  of  the  friends  from  the  village  as  had  come 
down  to  attend  the  funeral,  had  started  for  home  in  the 
afternoon  cars,  I  went  to  my  room  to  have  another  in- 
terview with  the  detective.  In  the  mean  time,  I  had 
heard  some  of  the  particulars  of  Mr.  Burton's  history, 
which  had  greatly  increased  the  interest  I  already  felt 
in  him.  He  had  chosen  his  present  occupation  out  of 
a  consciousness  of  his  fitness  for  it.  He  was  in  inde-j 
pendent  circumstances,  and1  accepted  no  salary  for  what  \-/ 
was  with  him  a  labor  of  love  ;  seldom  taking  any  of  the 
liberal  sums  pressed  upon  him  by  grateful  parties  who 
had  benefited  by  his  skill,  except  to  cover  expenses  to 
which  long  journeys,  or  other  necessities  of  the  case, 
might  have  subjected  him.  He  had  been  in  the  "  pro- 
fession "  but  a  few  years.  Formerly  he  had  been  a  for- 
warding-merchant,  universally  esteemed  for  integrity, 
and  carrying  about  him  that  personal  influence  which 
men  of  strong  will  and  unusual  discrimination  exercise 
over  those  with  whom  they  come  in  contact.  But  that 
he  had  any  extraordinary  powers,  of  the  kind  which 
had  since  been  developed,  he  was  as  ignorant  as  others. 
An  accident,  which  revealed  these  to  him,  shaped  the 
future  course  of  his  life.  One  wild  and  windy  night 
the  fire-bells  of  Xew  York  rung  a  fierce  alarm  ;  the 
flames  of  a  large  conflagration  lighted  the  sky;  the 
firemen  toiled  manfully,  as  was  their  wont,  but  the  air 
was  bitter  and  the  pavements  sleety,  and  the  wintry 
wind  "  played  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  heaven  " 
as  made  the  angel  of  mercy  almost  despair.  Before  the 
fire  could  be  subdued,  four  large  warehouses  had  been 


08  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

burned  to  the  ground,  and  in  one  of  them  a  1  a r; re- 
quantity  of  uninsured  merchandise  for  which  Mr.  Bur- 
ton was  responsible. 

The  loss,  to  him,  was  serious.  He  barely  escaped 
failure  by  drawing  in  his  business  to  the  smallest  com- 
pass, and,  by  the  exercise  of  great  prudence,  he  man- 
aged  to  save  a  remnant  of  his  fortune,  with  which,  as 
soon  as  he  could  turn  it  to  advantage,  he  withdrew 
from  his  mercantile  career.  His  miiul  was  In-lit  on  a 
new  business,  which  unfitted  him  for  any  other. 

The  fire  was  supposed  to  be  purely  accidental  ;  the 
insurance  companies  usually  cautions  enough,  had  paid 
over  their  varying  amounts  ot'  insurance  to  those  for- 
tunate losers,  who  were  not,  like  Mr.  Hurt  on,  unpre- 
pared. These  losers  wen-  men  of  wealth,  and  the 
highest  position  as  busin»->s  linns — high  and  mighty 
potentates  against  whom  tobreathc  aluvath  of  Zander, 
was  to  overwhelm  the  audacious  individual  in  the  ruins 
of  his  own  presumption.  .Mr.  Burton  had  an  inward 
conviction  that  these  men  wen-guilty  nl'arson.  lie  knew 
it.  His  mind  perceived  their  guilt.  But  he  could 
make  no  allegation  against  them  upon  Mich  unsubstan- 
tial  bans  as  this.  II.-  W  '  t->  work,  quietly  and  singly, 
to  gather  up  the  threads  in  the  cable  of  his  proof;  and 
when  he  had  made  it  .strong  enough  to  hang  them  t  \\  ice 
Over — for  two  lives,  that  of  a  porter  and  a  clerk,  had 
been  lost  in  the  burning  buildings — he  threatened  them 
with  exposure,  unless  they  made  good  to  him  the  loss 
which  he  had  sustained  through  their  villainy.  They 
laughed  at  him  from  their  stronghold  of  iv.j.ect- 
nbility.  Ho  brought  the  ca<e  into  court.  Alas!  for 
the  pure,  white  statin-  ••!'  .lu-li.-e  \\hich  beautifies-  the 
desecrated  chambers  ot'  the  law.  Handed  together, 
with  inexhaustible  means  of  corruption  at  their  com- 
mand, the  guilty  were  triumphant. 

During  this  experience,  Mr.  Burton  tiad  got  an  inside 


A   XOBLE   MAN.  69 

view  of  life,  in  the  marts,  on  exchange,  in  the  halls  of 
justice,  and  in  the  high  and  low  places  where  men  do 
congregate.  It  was  as  if,  with  the  thread  in  his  hand, 
which  he  had  picked  out,  he  unraveled  the  whole  web 
of  human  iniquity.  Burning  with  a  sense  of  his  indi- 
vidual wrongs,  he  could  not  look  calmly  on  and  see 
others  similarly  exposed ;  he  grew  fascinated  with  his 
labor  of  dragging  the  dangerous  secrets  of  a  commu- 
nity to  the  light.  The  more  he  called  into  play  the 
peculiar  faculties  of  his  mind,  which  made  him  so  suc- 
cessful a  hunter  on  the  paths  of  the  guilty,  the  more 
marvelous  became  their  development.  He  wras  like  an 
Indian  on  the  trail  of  his  enemy — the  bent  grass,  the 
broken  twig,  the  evanescent  dew — which,  to  the  unin- 
itiated, were  "  trifles  light  as  air,"  to  him  were  "  proofs 
strong  as  Holy  Writ." 

In  this  work  he  was  actuated  by  no  pernicious  mo- 
tives. Upright  and  humane,  with  a  generous  heart 
which  pitied  the  innocent  injured,  his  conscience  would 
allow  him  no  rest  if  he  permitted  crime,  which  he  could 
see  walking  where  others  could  not,  to  flourish  unmo- 
lested in  the  sunshine  made  for  better  uses.  He  attached 
himself  to  the  secret  detective-police ;  only  working  up 
such  cases  as  demanded  the  benefit  of  his  rare  powers. 

Thus  much  of  Mr.  Burton  had  the  chief  of  police  re- 
vealed to  me,  during  a  brief  interview  in  the  morning ; 
and  this  information,  it  may  be  supposed,  had  not  less- 
ened the  fascinations  which  he  had  for  me.  The  first 
thing  he  said,  after  the  greetings  of  the  day,  when  he 
came  to  my  room,  was, 

"  I  have  ascertained  that  our  sewing-girl  has  one  vis- 
itor, who  is  a  constant  one.  There  is  a  middle-aged 
woman,  a  nurse,  who  brings  a  child,  now  about  a  year 
old,  every  Sunday  to  spend  half  the  day  with  her,  when 
she  does  not  go  up  to  Blankville.  On  such  occasions  it 
is  brought  in  the  evening,  some  time  during  the  week. 


70  THE   DEAD  LETTEB. 

It  passes,  so  says  the  landlady,  for  the  child  of  a  cousin 
of  Miss  Sullivan's,  who  was  married  to  a  worthless 
young  fellow,  who  deserted  her  within  three  months, 
and  went  off  to  the  west;  the  mother  died  at  its  birth, 
leaving  it  entirely  unprovided  for,  and  Miss  Sullivan, 
to  keep  it  out  of  the  charity -hospital,  hired  this  woman 
to  nurse  it  with  her  own  baby,  for  which  she  pays  her 
twelve  shillings  a  week.  She  was,  according  to  her 
story  to  the  landlady,  very  much  attached  to  her  poor 
cousin,  and  could  not  cast  off  the  little  one  for  her 
sake." 

44  All  of  which  may  be  true—" 

"Or  false — as  the  case  may  turn." 

44  It  certainly  will  not  be  difficult  to  ascertain  if  such 
a  cousin  really  married  and  died,  as  represented.  The 
girl  has  not  returned  to  her  work  yet,  I  suppose  ?" 

44  She  has  not.  Her  absence  gives  the  thing  a  bad 
look.  Some  connection  she  undoubtedly  has  with  the 
case  ;  as  for  how  deeply  she  was  involved  in  it,  we  will 
only  know  when  we  find  out.  Whoever  the  child's 
mother  may  have  been,  it  seems  evident,  from  the  tenor 
of  the  landlady's  story,  that  Miss  Sullivan  is  much  at- 
tached to  it ;  it  is  safe  to  presume  that,  sooner  or  later, 
she  will  return  to  look  after  it.  In  her  anxiety  to  reach 
the  nest,  she  will  fly  into  the  trap.  I  have  made  ar- 
rangements by  which  I  shall  be  informed  if  she  appears 
at  any  of  her  former  haunts,  or  at  the  house  of  the 
nurse.  And  now,  I  believe,  I  will  go  up  to  Blank ville 
with  you  for  a  single  day.  I  wish  to  see  the  ground 
of  the  tragedy,  including  Mr.  Argyll's  residence,  tho 
lawn,  the  library  from  which  the  money  was  abstracted, 
etc.  A  clear  picture  of  these,  carried  in  my  mind,  may 
be  of  use  to  me  in  unexpected  ways.  If  we  hear 
nothing  of  her  in  the  village,  I  will  return  to  the  city, 
and  await  her  reappearance  here,  which  will  be  sure  to 
occur  within  a  month." 


"  MT  PROFESSION."  71 

"  Why  within  a  month  ?" 

"  Women  risk  themselves,  always,  where  a  little 
child  demands  it.  When  the  nurse  finds  the  baby 
abandoned  by  its  protector,  and  the  wages  unpaid,  she 
will  throw  the  charge  upon  the  authorities.  To  pre- 
vent this,  the  girl  will  be  back  here  to  see  after  it. 
However,  I  hope  we  shall  not  be  a  month  getting  at 
what  we  want.  It  will  be  curious  if  we  don't  finish 
the  whole  of  this  melancholy  business  before  that.  And, 
by  the  way,  you  and  young  Argyll  had  quite  a  hide- 
and-seek  race  the  other  night !"  and  when  I  looked  my 
astonishment  at  this  remark,  he  only  laughed.  "  It's 
my  profession,  you  know,"  was  his  only  explanation. 


72  THE   DEAD  LETTER. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

TWO   LINKS    IN   THE   CHAIN. 

WE  went  up  to  Blankville  that  evening,  arriving  late. 
I  confess  that  I  felt  a  thrill  as  of  cold  steel,  and  ]>< 
over  my  shoulder  as  we  walked  up  the  hill  from  the 
depot;  but  my  companion  was  guilty  of  no  such  weak- 
ness. He  kept  as  sharp  a  lookout  as  the  light  of  a  set- 
ting moon  would  permit,  but  it  was  only  with  a  view 
to  making  himself  familiar  with  the  premises.  Wo 
passed  the  Argyll  mansion  on  our  way  to  my  board  in  •;- 
place;  it  was  too  late  to  call;  the  lights  were  extin- 
guished, except  the  faint  one  always  left  burning  in  the 
hall,  and  in  two  or  three  of  the  chambers.  A  rush  of 
emotion  oppressed  me,  as  I  drew  near  it ;  I  would  fain 
have  laid  my  head  against  the  pillars  of  tin-  irateway 
and  wept — tears  such  as  a  man  may  shed  without  re- 
proach, when  the  woman  he  loves  suffers.  A  growing 
anxiety  possessed  me  to  hear  of  Eleanor,  no  report  of 
her  mental  or  physical  condition  having  reached  me 
since  that  pieri-ing  shriek  had  announced  the  part- 
ing of  her  heart-strings  when  the  strain  of  linal  sepa- 
ration came.  I  would  have  gone  to  the  door  a  moment, 
to  make  inquiries,  had  I  not  inferred  that  a  knock  at 
that  late  hour  must  startle  the  family  int..  nervous  an- 
ticipations. The  wan  glimmer  of  the  sinking  moon 
•truck  under  the  branches  of  the  silent  trees,  which 
stood  about  the  dark  mass  of  the  stately  mansion  ;  not 
a  breath  stirred  the  crisp  foliage.  I  heard  a  leaf,  which 
loosened  itself  and  rustled  downward  to  the  sod. 

"It  is  a  fine  old  place,"  remarked  my  companion, 
pausing  because  my  own  steps  had  come  to  a  stand- 
still 


A  BUSINESS-PROSPECT.  78 

I  could  not  answer ;  he  drew  my  arm  into  his,  and 
we  went  on.  Mr.  Burton  was  growing  to  me  in  the 
shape  of  a  friend,  instead  of  a  detective-officer. 

That  night  I  gave  up  my  room  to  him,  taking  a  hall- 
bedroom  adjoining.  After  breakfast  we  went  forth  in- 
to the  village,  making  our  first  call  at  the  office.  Mr. 
Argyll  was  there,  looking  thin  and  care-worn.  He  said 
that  he  was  glad  to  have  me  back,  for  he  felt  unfit  for 
business,  and  must  let  the  mantle  of  labor  drop  upon 
my  shoulders  hereafter. 

There  had  been  an  implied  understanding,  although 
it  had  never  been  definitely  agreed  upon,  that  I  was  to 
become  a  partner  in  the  law  with  my  teacher,  when  I 
had  been  admitted  to  practice.  He  had  no  one  asso- 
ciated with  him  in  his  large  and  lucrative  business,  and 
he  was  now  getting  of  an  age  to  feel  like  retiring  from 
at  least  the  drudgery  of  the  profession.  That  he  de- 
signed to  offer  me  the  place  open  for  some  candidate,  I 
had  not  doubted,  for  he  had  said  as  much  many  times. 
This  prospect  was  an  unusually  fair  one  for  so  young  a 
person  as  myself;  it  had  urged  me  to  patient  study,  to 
eager,  ambitious  effort.  For  I  rightly  deemed  that  a 
respect  for  my  habits  of  mental  application  and  a  faith 
in  my  as  yet  undeveloped  talents,  had  decided  Mr. 
Argyll  to  offer  me  the  contemplated  encouragement. 
This  had  been  another  reason  for  James'  dislike  of  me. 
He  could  not  look  favorably  upon  one  who  had,  as  it 
were,  supplanted  him.  Instead  of  seeing  that  the  fault 
lay  in  himself,  and  applying  the  remedy,  he  pursued  the 
false  course  of  considering  me  as  a  rival  and  an  inter- 
loper. He,  also,  was  a  student  in  the  office,  and  that 
he  was  a  year  behind  me  in  his  studies,  and  that,  if  he 
ever  became  a  partner,  it  would  be  as  a  third  member 
of  the  firm,  was  owing  solely  to  his  habitual  indolence, 
which  gave  him  a  distaste  for  the  dry  details  of  a  law- 
yer's work.  What  he  would  have  liked  would  be  to 
4 


74  THE    DEAD    LETTER. 

have  his  examination  shirked  over,  to  be  admitted  on 
the  strength  of  his  uncle's  reputation,  :iml  then  to  be 
employed  only  in  making  brilliant  oratorical  efforts  be- 
fore the  judge,  jury  and  audience,  after  some  one  else 
had  performed  all  the  hard  labor  of  the  case,  and  placed 
his  weapons  ready  at  his  hand. 

I  f  Mr.  Argyll  really  intended  to  take  the  son  of  his 
old  friend  into  the  firm,  instead  of  his  nephew,  it  was 
simply  on  the  prudent  principles  of  business.  I  was  to 
pass  my  examination  on  the  first  of  November;  this 
remark,  then,  which  he  made,  as  I  observed  how 
weary  and  unwell  he  looked,  was  not  a  surprise  to 
me — it  came  ouly  as  a  confirmation  of  my  expecta- 
tions. 

At  that  moment  James  entered  the  oflieo.  There  was 
a  cloud  on  his  brow,  called  up  by  his  uncle's  words  ; 
he  hardly  took  time  to  shake  hands  with  me,  before  he 
said, 

"How  is  it,  uncle,  if  you  are  worried  and  overworked, 
that  you  do  not  tell  me?  I  should  have  been  «_'la<l  to 
help  you.  But  it  seems  I  am  of  no  possible  account 
nowaday-." 

Mr.  Argyll  smiled  at  this  outbreak,  as  he  would  at 
the  vexation  of  a  child.  A  father  eould  not  lie  kin. let- 
to  a  son  than  ho  was  to  James;  but  to  depend  upon 
him  for  solid  aid  or  comfort  would  be  to  lean  upon  a 
broken  reed.  The  cloud  upon  the  young  man's  face 
grew  thunderous  when  he  pereth.,1  Mr.  Huitoii;  al- 
though, if  I  had  not  been  looking  straight  in  hi>  . 
I  should  not  have  noticed  it,  for  it  passed  instantly,  .ml 
he  stepped  forward -with  frank  cordiality,  extending  his 
band,  and  saying, 

••  \Ve  did  not  know  you  were  to  come  up.  Indeed, 
we  did  not  expect  Richard  back  so  soon.  Has  any  thing 
transpired  ?" 

"  We  hope  that  something  will  transpire,  very  soon," 


BROKEN-HEARTED.  75 

answered  the  detective.  "  You  are  very  anxious,  I  see 
— and  no  wonder." 

"No — no  wonder!  "We  are  all  of  us  perfectly  ab- 
sorbed— and,  as  for  me,  my  heart  bleeds  for  niy  friends, 
Mr.  Burton." 

"  And  your  friends'  hearts  bleed  for  you." 

Mr.  Burton  had  a  peculiar  voice,  searching,  though 
not  loud  ;  I  was  talking  with  Mr.  Argyll,  and  yet  I 
heard  this  reply  without  listening  for  it;  I  did  not  com- 
prehend it,  and  indeed,  I  let  it  in  at  one  ear  and  out  at 
the  other,  for  I  was  asking  about  Eleanor. 

"  She  is  better  than  we  hoped  for,"  said  the  father, 
wiping  the  mist  from  his  eyes  which  gathered  at  the 
mention  of  her  name,  "  but,  alas,  Richard,  that  is  not 
saying  much.  My  girl  never  will  be  herself  again. 
My  pretty  Eleanor  will  never  be  my  sunshine  any  more. 
Not  that  her  mind  is  shaken — that  remains  only  too 
acutely  sensitive.  But  her  heart  is  broken.  I  can  see 
that — broken,  past  mending.  She  has  not  left  her  bed 
since  Henry  was  carried  away  ;  the  doctor  assures  me 
there  is  nothing  dangerous  about  her  illness — only  the 
natural  weakness  of  the  system  after  intense  suffering, 
the  same  as  if  she  had  endured  great  physical  pain.  He 
says  she  will  rally  presently." 

"If  I  could  take  her  burden  upon  myself,  I  would 
ask  no  greater  boon,"  I  said. 

My  voice  must  have  been  very  full  of  the  feeling 
within  me,  for  it  made  Mr.  Argyll  give  me  a  wonder- 
ing look  ;  I  think  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  a  suspi- 
cion of  the  hopeless  passion  I  had  cherished  for  his 
daughter. 

"  We  must  all  bear  our  own  troubles,"  he  said. 
"  Poor  Richard,  I  fear  you  have  your  own,  like  the  rest 
of  us." 

When  I  again  noticed  what  was  passing  between  the 
other  two,  James  was  telling  Mr.  Burton,  with  great 


76  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

animation,  of  some  information  which  had  been  lodged 
with  the  authorities  of  the  village.  I  became  absorbed 
in  it,  of  course. 

A  respectable  citizen  of  a  town  some  thirty  or  forty 
miles  beyond,  on  the  railroad,  hearing  of  the  murder, 
had  taken  the  trouble  to  come  down  to  Blunkville  and 
testify  to  some  things  which  had  fallen  umler  his  ob- 
servation  on  the  ni^ht  of  the  murder.  ]!<•  stated  that 
he  was  a  pa.-seii-jcr  on  the  Saturd.i\  afternoon  train 
from  Xew  York  ;  that  the  seat  in  front  of  hi>  own,  in 
the  car,  was  occupied  by  a  young  gentleman,  who,  by 
tin-  description  since  'jiven,  lie  knew  nui^t  In-  Henrv 
Morcland  ;  that,  as  there  were  but  few  people  in  that 
ear.  he  had  given  theinoiv  attention  to  th«»r  near  him; 
that  he  was  particularly  attracted  by  the  pr. 
appearance  of  the  young  gentleman,  with  whom  : 
changed  a  few  remarks  with  regard  to  the  storm,  and 
who  informed  him  that  he  was  going  no  further  than 
Klankville. 

••  Al'ter  \\e  had  been  riding  a  while,"  said  the  witnr-s 
— I  do  not  jrhe  .lames'  words  in  telling  it,  but  his  own, 
as  I  afterward  read  them  in  the  sworn  testimony — "I 
notic.  in  who  sat  on  the  oppoMU-  side  of  the 

car.  facing  n-.  His  forehead  was  bent  mi  his  hand,  and 
he  was  looking  out  from  umler  his  lingers,  at  the  young 
man  in  front  of  me.  It  was  his  sinister  expnv~--i.ni 
which  compelled  m«-  to  notice  him.  His  small,  glitter- 
iiiLT.  black  eyes  were  fixed  upon  my  neighbor  with  a, 
look  which  made  me  shudder.  I  smiled  at  myself  for 
my  own  sensation — said  to  myself  it  was  none  of  my 
business — that  I  was  nervous — yet,  in  spite  of  my  at- 
tempts to  be  unconcerned,  I  was  continually  compelled 
to  look  across  at  the  individual  of  whose  serpent-gaze 
the  young  gentleman  himself  appeared  totally  uncon- 
scious. It'  he  had  once  met  those  eyes,  I  am  certain  ho 
would  have  been  on  his  guard— for  I  assi  it,  without 


A   SUSPICIOUS   CHARACTER.  77 

other  proof  than  what  afterward  transpired,  that  there 
was  murder  in  them,  and  that  that  person  was  Henry 
Moreland's  murderer.  I  can  not  prove  it — but  my  con- 
viction is  unalterable.  I  only  wish,  now,  that  I  had 
yielded  to  my  impulse  to  shake  my  unknown  neighbor, 
and  say  to  him — '  See !  there  is  an  enemy  !  beware  of 
him !'  There  was  nothing  but  the  man's  look  to  justify 
such  a  proceeding,  and  of  course  I  curbed  my  feel- 
ings. 

"  The  man  was  a  common-looking  person,  dressed  in 
dark  clothes ;  he  wore  a  low-crowned  felt  hat,  slouched 
down  on  his  forehead ;  I  do  not  remember  about  his 
hair,  but  his  eyes  were  black,  his  complexion  sallow. 
I  noticed  a  scar  across  the  back  of  the  hand  which  he 
held  over  his  eyes,,  is  if  it  had  sometime  been  cut 
across  with  a  knife  ;  a. so;  "*>at  he  had  a  large  ring,  with 
a  red  stone  in  it,  on  '-  s  lit:tl^€nger. 

"  When  the  cars  ^ftoPped  at  Blankville,  this  person 
arose  and  followed  iKi^'y  Moreland  from  the  car.  I 
saw  him  step  off  the  platform  behind  him,  which  was 
the  last  I  saw  of  either  of  them." 

It  may  be  imagined  with  what  a  thrill  of  fearful  in- 
terest we  listened  to  this  account,  and  the  thousand 
conjectures  to  which  it  gave  rise. 

"  It  can  not  be  difficult,"  I  exclaimed,  "to  find  other 
witnesses  to  testify  of  this  man." 

We  were  assured  by  James  that  every  effort  had  been 
made  to  get  some  trace  of  him.  No  person  answering 
to  the  description  was  a  resident  of  the  village,  and  no 
one  could  be  heard  of  as  having  been  seen  in  the  vicin- 
ity. Not  a  solitary  lounger  about  the  depot,  or  the 
hotel  close  at  hand,  could  recall  that  he  had  seen  such 
a  stranger  leave  the  cars  ;  no  such  person  had  stopped 
at  the  hotel ;  even  the  conductor  of  the  train  could  not 
be  certain  of  such  a  passenger,  though  he  had  a  dim 
recollection  of  a  rough  fellow  in  the  car  with  Mr. 


78  THE   DEAD  LETTER. 

Moreland — he  had  not  observed  where  he  left  the  train 
— thought  his  tick*-!  was  tor  Albany. 

"  But  we  do  not  despair  of  some  evidence,  yet,"  said 
Mr.  Argyll. 

"  The  New  York  police,  not  being  able  to  do  any 
thing  further  here,  have  gone  home,"  continued  James. 
"If  such  a  villain  lurks  in  New  York,  he  will  be  found. 
That  scar  on  the  hand  is  a  good  point  for  identifying 
him — don't  you  think  so,  sir?"  to  Mr: Burton. 

"  Well — yes  !  unless  it  was  put  on  for  the  purpose. 
It  may  have  been  done  in  n-<l  ocher,  and  washed  ort' 
afterward.  If  the  fellow  was  a  practiced  lian-1,  a-  the 
skill  and  precision  of  tlie  blow  would  imply,  lie  will  be 
up  to  all  such  tricks.  If  lie  had  a  real  sear,  he  would 
have  worn  gloves  on  such  an  CIT.HI  1." 

"You  think  so  ?"  and  James  dfrew  a  long  breath, 
probably  of  discouragement  at  1  .lenient  of 

the  c 

"  I  would  like  to  <jo  down  to  •'  .-  depot,  and  along  the 
docks  for  an  hour,"  continued  Mr.  Burton,  %>  if  t 
nothing  eUe  to  1.,- done  immediately." 

Jnincs  politely  insisted  upon  accompanying  n^. 

M  What  the  deuce  did  you  br'm<;  another  of  those  de- 
tective- up  here  for;'"  he  a-krd  me,  x»ft<>  rnc,\  at  the 
lir-i  opportunity.  "We've  had  a  surfeit  of  them — 
e  regular  bores  !  and  this  Kurrou.Jiv  ,,,•  IJurlon, 
or  whatever  his  name  K  i^  the  most  disagreeable  of 
them  all.  A  conceited  fellow — one  of  the  kind  I  dis- 
like, naturally." 

•  You  mi-iake  his  character.  He  is  intelligent  and  a 
gentleman." 

"  I  wish  you  joy  of  his  society,"  was  the  sneering 
reply. 

Nevertheless,  James  favored  us  with  his  company 
daring  our  morning's  tour.  One  sole  fact  tin  di  t. ,  ti\. 
ascertained  in  the  course  of  his  two  hours'  work.  A 


MUTE   WITNESSES.  79 

fisherman  had  lost  a  small-boat  during  the  storm  of 
Saturday  night.  He  had  left  it,  fastened  to  its  accus- 
tomed moorings,  and,  in  the  morning,  found  that  the 
chain,  which  was  old  and  rusty,  had  parted  one  of  its 
links,  probably  by  the  extreme  violence  with  which  the 
wind  had  dashed  the  boat  about.  Mr.  Burton  had 
asked  to  see  the  remnant  of  the  chain.  It  was  still  at- 
tached to  the  post  around  which  it  had  been  locked. 
An  examination  of  the  broken  link  showed  that  it  was 
partly  rusted  away  ;  but  there  were  also  marks  upon  it, 
as  if  a  knife  or  chisel  might  have  been  used. 

"  I  see  my  boy,  Billy,  a-tinkeriu'  with  it,"  said  the 
fisherman.  "  Like  as  not  he's  been  a-usin'  of  it  to  whit- 
tle on.  That  boy  breaks  more  knives'n  his  neck's  wuth. 
He's  goin'  on  nine,  now,  and  he's  had  six  jack-knives  in 
as  many  months." 

Mr.  Burton  stood,  holding  the  chain  in  his  hand, 
and  looking  up  and  down  the  river.  His  face  glowed 
with  a  light  which  shone  through  from  some  inward 
fire.  I,  who  had  begun  to  watch  his  varying  expres- 
sions with  keen  interest,  saw  that  he  was  again  becom- 
ing excited ;  but  not  in  the  same  way  as  on  that  first 
evening  of  our  meeting,  when  he  grew  so  leonine. 

He  looked  at  the  water  and  the  sky,  the  fail1  shores 
and  the  dull  dock,  as  if  these  mute  witnesses  were  tell- 
ing to  him  a  tale  which  he  read  like  a  printed  book.  A 
few  moments  he  stood  thus  in  silence,  his  countenance 
illuminated  by  that  wonderful  intelligence.  Then,  say- 
ing that  his  researches  were  thixmgh  with  in  this  part 
of  the  village,  we  returned,  almost  in  silence,  to  the  of- 
fice ;  for  when  this  man  was  pondering  the  enigmas 
whose  solution  he  was  so  certain  to  announce,  sooner 
or  later,  he  grew  absorbed  and  taciturn. 

Mr.  Argyll  made  us  go  home  with  him  to  dinner.  I 
knew  that  I  should  not  see  Eleanor ;  yet,  even  to  be 
under  the  same  roof  with  her,  made  me  tremble.  Mary, 


80  THE   DEAD  LETTER. 

who  was  constantly  in  attendance  upon  her  sister,  would 
not  appear  at  the  table.  Slit-  came  down.  i'<>r  a  moment, 
to  greet  me,  and  to  thank  me  tor  my  poor  cllbrts.  The 
diar  rliil'l  had  changed  some,  like  the  nM  of  us.  She 
could  not  look  like  any  thing  but  the  rosebud  which 
she  was — afresh  and  pure  young  creature  of  sixteen 
summers — a  rosebud  drenched  in  de\v — a  little  pale, 
with  a  quiver  in  her  smile,  and  bright  tears  beading  her 
eye-lashes,  ready,  at  any  moment,  to'  drop.  It  was 
touching  to  see  one  naturally  so  joyous,  subdued  by  the 
shadow  which  had  fallen  over  the  house.  Neither  of  us 
could  say  much;  our  lips  trembled  \\lien  \\  e  >p.-].. 
name;  so,  after  a  moment's  holding  my  hand,  while-  the 
tears  began  to  flow  fast,  Mary  unclasped  my  fingers, 
and  went  up  stairs.  I  saw  .Mr.  Hurton  hide  those  blue- 
gray  eyes  of  his  in  his  handkerchief;  my  respect  for 
him  deepened  as  I  felt  that  thovc  eye-,  sharp  and  pene- 
trating as  they  were,  ucrc  not  too  cold  to  warm  with 
ft  sudden  mi-t  at  the  vision  he  had  beheld. 

"  Ah !"  murmured  I  to  myself,  "  if  he  could  see  Elea- 
nor!" 

When  dinner  was  over,  Mr.  Argyll  went  up  to  see 
his  children,  giving  me  permission  to  show  the  house 
and  grounds  to  the  detective.  James  went  on  the  por- 
ti.  •  to  smoke  a  cigar.  Mr.  Uurton  sat  a  short  time  in 
the  library,  taking  an  impression  of  it  on  his  mind,  «  \- 
amined  the  lock  of  the  desk,  and  noticed  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  one  window,  \\hidi  was  a  large  bay-\\  indo\v 
opening  to  the  floor  and  projecting  over  tin-  lb.\\er- 
n  which  lay  behind  the  house  and  bordcivd  ihe 
la\\  n  to  the  right.  It  was  about  three  feet  to  the  ground, 
ilthough  quite  accessible,  as  a  mode  of  entrance, 
Jo  any  one  compelled  to  that  resource,  the  \\  indow  WE8 
not  ordinarily  used  as  a  mode  of  ingress  or  egress.  I 
had  Hometimes  chased  Mary,  when  she  Was  not  SO  old 

as  now,  and  sent  her  flying  through  the  open  .•:.-.  muit. 


THE    HANDKERCHIEF.  81 

into  the  mignonette  and  violets  beneath,  and  I  after ; 
but  since  we  had  both  grown  more  sedate,  such  pi-anks 
were  rare. 

We  then  went  out  upon  the  lawn.  I  took  my  com- 
panion to  the  tree  beneath  which  I  had  stood,  when  that 
dark  figure  had  approached,  and  passed  me,  to  crouch 
beneath  the  window  from  which  the  death-candles 
shone.  From  this  spot,  the  bay-window  was  not  visi- 
ble, that  being  at  the  back  of  the  house  and  this  on  the 
side.  Mr.  Burton  looked  carefully  about  him,  walking 
all  over  the  lawn,  going  up  under  the  parlor  windows, 
and  thence  pursuing  his  way  into  the  garden  and  around 
to  the  bay-window.  It  was  quite  natural  to  search 
closely  in  this  precinct  for  some  mark  or  footsteps,  some 
crushed  flowers,  or  broken  branches,  or  scratches  upon 
the  wall,  left  by  the  thief,  if  he  or  she  had  made  his  or 
her  entrance  at  this  spot.  Going  over  the  ground  thus, 
inch  by  inch,  I  observed  a  bit  of  white  lawn,  soiled  and 
weather-beaten,  lying  under  a  rose-bush  a  few  feet  from 
the  window.  I  picked  it  up.  It  was  a  woman's  hand- 
kerchief, of  fine  lawn,  embroidered  along  the  edge  with 
a  delicate  running  vine,  and  a  spray  of  flowers  at  the 
corner. 

"  One  of  the  young  ladies  has  dropped  it,  some  time 
ago,"  I  said,  "  or  it  has  blown  across  from  the  kitchen 
grass-plot,  where  the  linen  is  put  out  to  dry." 

Then  I  examined  the  discolored  article  more  closely, 
and,  involved  in  the  graceful  twinings  of  the  spray  of 
flowers,  I  saw  worked  the  initials — "  L.  S." 

"  Leesy  Sullivan,"  said  my  companion,  taking  it  from 
my  hand. 

"  It  seems  too  dainty  an  article  for  her  ownership," 
I  said,  at  last,  for,  at  first,  I  had  been  quite  stupefied. 

"A  woman's  vanity  will  compass  many  things  beyond 
her  means.  This  thing  she  has  embroidered  with  her 
own  needle — you  remember,  she  is  a  proficient  in  the  art." 


82  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

"  Yes,  I  remember.  She  may  have  lost  it  Sunday 
niirht,  during  that  visit  which  I  observed;  and  the  wind 
has  blown  it  over  into  this  spot." 

"  You  forget  that  there  has  been  no  rain  since  that 
nielli.  This  handkerchief  has  been  beaten  into  the 
grass  and  earth  by  a  violent  rain.  A  thorn  upon  this 
bush  has  pulled  it  from  her  pocket  as  she  passed,  and 
the  rain  has  set  its  mark  upon  it,  to  be  used  as  a  toti- 
mony  against  her." 

"  The  evidence  seems  to  conflict.  She  can  not  be  a 
man  and  woman  both." 

••  Why  not  ?"  was  the  quiet  reply.  "  There  may  be 
a  principal  and  an  accomplice.  A  woman  is  a  safer  ac- 
complice for  a  man  than  one  of  his  own  sex — and  vice 
versa." 

The  lace  which  I  had  seen,  in  its  despair,  the  lace  of 
Leesy  Sullivan,  rose  in  my  memory,  full  of  pa->ion, 
marked  in  every  soft  yet  impressive  lineament  with 
slumbering  power — "  such  a  nature,"  I  thought,  "can 
be  maddened  into  crime,  but  it  will  not  con>ort  with 
villa  i, 

Mr.  Hurt  on  put  the  handkerchief  in  the  inside  pocket 
of  his  coat,  and  we  returned  into  the  house,  lie  in- 
quired the  name-;  of  the  servanN,  none  <if  whose  initials 
Corresponded  with  thoM-  we  had  found,  nor  could  I  re- 
call any  lady  visitors  of  the  family  to  \\li.nii  the  hand- 
kerchief iniijht  belong  by  virtue  of  ita  inscription. 
There  was  not  the  shadow  of  a  d.-ul.t  hut  that  it  had 
been  the  property  of  the  M-\\  inu'-u'ii'I.  Some  errand, 
secret  and  unlawful,  had  brought  her  to  these  grounds, 
and  under  this  window.  We  now  considered  it  proper 
tu  show  the  handkerchief  to  Mr.  Argyll,  and  relate  to 
him  our  ground*  of  su»pieion  auMiti-l  the  L'irl. 
and  .lames  were  admitted  to  the  council.  The  former 
•aid  that  nhe  rcinemhcred  Mi>s  Sullivan  ;  that  she  ha«l 
been  employed  in  the  family,  for  a  few  days  at  a  time, 


THE   SERVANTS    QUESTIONED.  83 

on  several  different  occasions,  but  none  of  them  recent. 
"  We  liked  her  sewing  very  much,  and  wanted  to  en- 
gage her  for  the  next  six  weeks,"  she  added,  with  a 
sigh,  "  but  on  inquiring  for  her,  learned  that  she  was 
now  employed  in  New  York." 

"  She  must,  then,  have  been  perfectly  familiar  with 
the  arrangement  of  the  house,  and  with  the  habits  of 
the  family ;  as  for  instance,  at  what  hour  you  dined. 
She  might  enter  Avhile  the  family  were  at  table,  since, 
had  she  been  surprised  by  the  entrance  of  a  servant,  or 
other  person,  she  could  affect  to  have  called  on  an  er- 
rand, and  to  be  waiting  for  the  young  ladies,"  remarked 
Mr.  Burton. 

The  servants  were  then  summoned,  one  at  a  time, 
and  questioned  as  to  whether  they  had  observed  any 
suspicious  persons  whatever  about  the  house  or  grounds 
within  a  week.  They  were,  of  course,  in  a  national 
state  of  high  excitement,  and  immediately  upon  a  ques- 
tion being  put  to  them,  answered  every  other  imaginary 
case  in  the  world  but  that,  blessed  themselves,  called 
on  the  Virgin  Mary,  gave  an  account  of  all  the  beggars 
as  called  at  the  kitchen  last  year  and  the  year  afore, 
cried  abundantly,  and  gave  no  coherent  information. 

"  Ah,  sure  J"  said  Norah,  the  cook,  "  there  was  the 
blackin'-and-bluin'  man  come  around  last  Wednesday, 
and  I  tuk  a  bottle  of  the  blue  for  the  clothes.  It's  a 
poor  mimiry  I  have,  sure,  since  I  came  across  the  say. 
Afore  that  I  could  recollect  beyond  any  thing,  and  the 
praste  used  to  praise  my  rading.  I  think  it  was  the 
tossin'  an'  rollin'  ov  the  ship  upsot  my  brain.  It  was 
Saturday,  it  wur,  and  oh,  Lordy,  it  is  setting  me  all  of 
a  trimble  a-thinkin'  of  that  day,  and  I  see  a  little  yeller 
dog  a-stickiu'  his  nose  into  the  kitching  door,  which 
was  open  about  half,  and  nays  I,  there/ s  vagabonds 
'  around  str^nghv,  I  knew  by  the  dog,  and  I  wint  and 
looked  out,  and  sure  as  me  name's  Norah,  there  was  an 


84  THE   DEA.D  LETTER. 

old  lame  man  wid  a  stick  a-prct  hiding  to  look  for  rags 
an'  bones  in  the  alley  to  the  stable,  which  I  niver 
allows  such  about,  as  it's  against  the  master's  orthers, 
and  I  druv  him  off  imniajetly — and  that,  I  think,  Mas 
Saturday  two  weeks  no\v,  but  I  won't  be  sure  ;  nml  I 
don't  mind  nobody  else  but  the  chany-wonlan,  wid  her 
basket,  which  I  don't  think  it  could  have  been  her  as 
done  any  thin'  bad,  for  she's  been  round  rig'ler,  for  a 
good  while,  and  is  a  dacent-spoken  body  that  I've  had 
some  dalin's  wid  myself.  I  sowld  her  my  old  plaid 
gown  for  the  match-box  of  ebony  that  sits  on  the  kitch- 
ing-mantcl  now,  and  oh  dear!  but  my  heart's  dead 
broke,  sure  !  Margaret  and  I  daren't  set  in  the  kitehing 
of  nights  no  more,  unless  Jim's  there,  an'  I've  woke  up 
Bcr'aming  two  nights  now — oeh  hone!  and  if  I'.i 
any  thing,  I'd  a  told  it  Ion-;  afore,  which  I  wi»h  I  had, 
.  d  me,  sir.  It  don't  do  no  good  a-cook- 
ing  delicacies  whieh  nobody  eats  no  longer — I  wish  I 
had  never  eome  to  Amyrik\ .  DC  Mi-s  Kleanor 

BO  tuk  down  !"  and  having  relieved  herself  of  the  sym- 
pathy which  slie  had  been  aching  to  express,  without 
the  Opportunity,  -lie  threw  her  apron  over  her  head, 
and  sobbed  after  the  manner  of  her  people. 

Margaret's  testimony  was  no  more  to  the  point  than 

it's.     Mr.  Burton  let  each  one  go  on  after  her  own 

•.putting    up  \\ith  the    tedious   circumlocution,   in 

the  hope  of  some  kernel  of  wheat  in  the  hii>hel  of  chatV. 

Artt-r  a  deluge  of  tears  and  intcrjcetions,  Maggie  did 
finally  come  out  with  a  statement  which  arrested  the 
attention  of  her  li-tcii. 

"  I've  never  seen  none  gawking  about  as  didn't  be- 
long here — not  a  living  sowl.  The  howly  Virgin  pre- 
vii't  that  iver  I  should  see  what  Jim  did — it  wasn't  a 
human  being  at  all,  hut  a  wraith,  and  ho  seen  it  that 
very  night.  He  nivi-r  told  us  of  it,  till  the  Tuesday 
night,  as  we  sot  talking  about  the  funeral,  and  it 


A  WKAITH.  85 

frightened  us  so,  we  niver  slept  a  wink  till  morning. 
Poor  Jim's  worried  with  it,  too ;  he  pretinds  he  isn't  afraid 
of  the  livin'  nor  dead,  but  it's  no  shame  to  the  best  to 
stand  in  awe  of  the  sperits,  and  I  see  he's  backward 
about  going  about  the  place,  alone,  after  dark,  and  no 
wonder !  Sure,  he  saw  a  ghost !" 

"  What  was  it  like  ?" 

"  Sure,  you'd  best  call  him,  and  let  him  describe  it 
for  hisself— it'll  make  your  blood  run  cold  to  think  of 
sich  things  in  a  Christian  family." 

Jim  was  summoned.  His  story,  weeded  out,  was 
this:  On  Saturday  evening,  after  tea,  his  mistress, 
Miss  Eleanor,  had  asked  him  to  go  to  the  post-office 
for  the  evening  mail.  It  was  very  dark  and  rainy.  He 
lighted  the  lantern.  As  he  went  out  the  back  gate,  he 
stopped  a  minute  and  lifted  his  lantern  to  take  a  look 
about  the  premises,  to  see  if  there  was  any  thing  left 
out  which  ought  to  be  taken  in  from  the  storm.  As  he 
waved  the  light  about,  he  saw  something  in  the  flower- 
garden,  about  six  feet  from  the  bay-window.  It  had 
the  appearance  of  a  woman ;  its  face  was  white,  its 
hair  hung  down  on  its  shoulders ;  it  stood  quite  still  in 
the  rain,  just  as  if  the  water  was  not  coming  down  by 
bucketfuls.  It  had  very  large,  bright  eyes,  which  shone 
when  the  candle  threw  the  light  on  them,  as  if  they  had 
been  made  of  fire.  He  was  so  frightened  that  he  let 
his  lantern  fall,  which  did  not  happen  to  extinguish  the 
candle,  but  when  he  lifted  it  up  again,  the  wraith  had 
vanished.  He  felt  very  queer  about  it,  at  the  time ; 
and  next  day,  when  the  bad  news  came,  he  knew  it  was 
a  warning.  They  often  had  such  in  the  old  country. 

We  did  not  undeceive  Jim  as  to  the  character  of  the 
phantom.  With  the  assurance  that  it  probably  would 
not  come  again,  since  its  mission  had  been  accomplished, 
and  a  caution  not  to  make  the  girls  in  the  kitchen  too 
nervous  about  it,  we  dismissed  him. 


86  THE  DEAD  LETTER. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

ELEANOR. 

ONE  week,  another — a  third — a  fourth,  passed  by.  Our 
village  was  as  if  it  had  never  been  shaken  by  :i  tit-ive 
agitation.  Already  the  tr..  M  if  it  had  not 

been,  except  to  the  household  whose  fairest  flower  it 
had  blighted.  People  no  longer  looked  over  their  shoul- 
ders as  they  walked ;  the  story  now  only  served  to  en- 
I'm-n  the  history  of  the  little  place,  when  it  was  told  to 
a  stranger. 

Kvery  limit;  that  human  energy  could  accomplish  had 
been  done  to  track  the  murder  to  its  origin  :  yel  not, 
one  step  had  been  gained  since  \ve  sat,  that  Wednesday 
afternoon,  in  the  parlor,  holding  a  council  over  the 
handkerchief.  Yoim^and  healthful  as  1  was,  I  f,-lt  my 
spirits  breaking  down  under  mv  constant,  unavailing 
ions.  The  time  for  mv  examination  came,  which 
could  not  be  unsuccessful,  I  had  so  lon^  been  thorou^lily 
•>•>].  but  I  had  \<>-l  my  keen  interest  in  this  era  of 
my  lite,  while  my  ambition  LMVW  torpid.  To  excel  in 
my  pr«ifi-*ioii  had  become.  f,.r  the  time,  <|iiite  the  seo- 
ondary  object  ,.f  my  life;  my  brain  grew  feverish  \\ith 
the  h:ira-s!ii,.|it.  of  restless  project-  !  of 

thwarteil  ideas.  There  WO8  not  one  in  the  family  group 
(always  excepting  that  un-cen  and  cloistered  Millerer) 
who  betrayed  the  wear-and-tear  of  our  trouble  so  much 
as  I.  James  remarked  once  that  I  u:i-  impi»\<<l  by 
losing  some  of  my  boyish  ruddiness  I  was  '-toning 
down,"  he  said.  On  another  occasion,  with  that  Meph- 
istophili-s  smile  of  his,  lie  obs.-r\ed  that  it  mu-t  lie  that 
I  was  after  the  handsome  rewards — the  sum-total  would 
make  a  comfortable  setting-out  for  a  person  just  start- 
ing in  the  world. 


HOME-LIFE.  87 

I  do  not  think  he  wished  to  quarrel  with  me  ;  he  was 
always  doubly  pleasant  after  any  such  waspish  sting  ; 
he  was  naturally  satirical,  and  he  could  not  always  curb 
his  inclination  to  be  so  at  my  expense. 

In  the  mean  time  an  impression  grew  upon  me  that 
he  was  watching  me — with  what  intent  I  had  not  yet 
decided. 

In  all  this  time  I  had  not  seen  Eleanor.  She  had  re- 
covered from  her  illness,  so  as  to  be  about  her  room, 
but  had  not  yet  joined  the  family  at  meals.  I  went  fre- 
quently to  the  house ;  it  had  been  a  second  home  to  me 
ever  since  I  left  the  haunts  of  my  boyhood  and  the  old 
red-brick  mansion,  with,  the  Grecian  portico,  whose  mas- 
sive pillars  were  almost  reflected  in  the  waters  of  Seneca 
lake,  so  close  to  the  shore  did  it  stand — and  where  my 
mother  still  resided,  amidst  the  friends  who  had  known 
her  in  the  days  of  her  happiness — that  is,  of  my  father's 
life. 

With  the  same  freedom  as  of  old,  I  went  and  came 
to  and  from  Mr.  Argyll's.  I  was  not  apprehensive  of 
intruding  upon  Eleanor,  because  she  never  left  her 
apartments  ;  while  Mary,  gay  young  creature,  troubled 
and  grieved  as  she  was,  could  not  stay  always  in  the 
shadow.  At  her  age,  the  budding  blooms  of  woman- 
hood require  sunshine.  She  was  lonely,  and  when  she 
left  her  sister  to  the  solitude  which  Eleanor  preferred, 
she  wanted  company,  she  said.  James  was  gloomy, 
and  would  not  try  to  amuse  her — not  that  she  wanted 
to  be  amused,  but  every  thing  was  so  sad,  and  she  felt 
so  timid,  it  was  a  relief  to  have  any  one  to  talk  to,  or 
even  to  look  at.  I  felt  very  sorry  for  her.  It  became 
a  part  of  my  duty  to  bring  her  books,  and  sometimes 
to  read  them  aloud,  through  the  lengthening  evenings  ; 
at  others  to  while  away  the  time  with  a  game  of  chess. 
The  piano  was  abandoned  out  of  respect  for  the  mourn- 
er in  the  chamber  above.  Carols  would  rise  to  Mary's 


THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

lips,  as  they  rise  from  a  lark  at  sunrise,  but  she  always 
broke  them  off,  drowning  them  in  sighs.  Her  elastic 
spirit  constantly  asserted  it-elf,  while  the  tender  sym- 
pathy of  a  most  warm,  affectionate  nature  as  const.-.ntly 
depressed  it.  She  could  not  speak  of  Eleanor  without 
tears  ;  and  for  this  my  heart  blessed  her.  She  did  not 
know  of  the  choking  in  my  own  throat  which  often  pre- 
vented me  from  speaking,  when  I  ought,  perhaps,  to  be 
uttering  words  of  help  or  comfort. 

James  was  always  hovering  about  like  a  restless 
spirit.  It  had  been  one  of  his  indolent  habits  to  spend 
a  great  deal  of  time  with  the  young  ladies;  and  now 
he  was  forever  in  the  house  ;  but  so  uneasy,  so  irritable 
— as  Mary  said — lie  was  not  an  agreeable  eoinpaniou. 
lie  would  pick  up  a  book  in  the  library  :  in  five  min- 
utes he  would  throw  it  down,  and  walk  twiee  or  thrice 
up  and  down  the  hall,  out  upon  the  pia/./a,  back  into 
the  parlor,  and  stand  looking  out  of  the  windows — then 
to  the  library  and  take  up  another  hook.  He  hail  the 
air  of  one  always  listening— always  waiting.  He  had, 
too,  a  kind  of  haunted  lo,,k.  if  my  reader  can  imagine 
what  that  \*.  I  LTUc^cd  that  he  \\a<  listening  ami 
waiting  for  Klean«.r— whom,  like  myself,  he  h:,d  not 
Men  since  the  Sunday  so  memorable;  but  the  other 
look  I  did  not  seek  to  explain. 

There  had  been  a  li^ht  fall  of  snow.  It  seemed  as  if 
winter  had  come  in  \o\eniber.  Hut  in  a  few  hours 
this  aspect  \anMied;  the  -n-.w  melted  like  a  dream  ; 
the  zenith  was  a  deep,  molten  blue,  tran-fu-ed  with  the 
pale  sunshine,  which  is  only  seen  in  Indian  summer  ;  :v 
tender  mi>t  circled  the  hori/.on  with  a  /one  of  purple. 
I  ciiuldiiot  stay  in  theoflice  that  afternoon,  so  infinitely 
sad,  so  infinitely  lovely.  I  put  aside  the  I  aw -papers 
which  I  had  been  arranging  for  a  case  in  which  I 
first  to  appear  before  a  jury  and  make  my  maiden  argu- 
ment. The  air,  soft  as  that  of  summer  and  scented 


THE   LANGUAGE    OF   LOVE. 

with  the  indescribable  perfume  of  perishing  leaves,  came 
to  me  through  the  open  window,  with  a  message  call- 
ing me  abroad ;  I  took  up  my  hat,  stepped  out  upon 
the  pavement,  and  wandering  along  the  avenue  in  the 
direction  of  the  house,  went  in  upon  the  lawn.  I  had 
thought  to  go  out  into  the  open  country  for  a  long 
walk ;  but  my  heart  drew  me  and  held  me  here.  The 
language  of  all  beauty,  and  of  infinity  itself,  is  love. 
The  divine  melancholy  of  music,  the  deep  tranquillity 
of  summer  noons,  the  softened  splendor  of  autumn 
days,  haunting  one  with  ineffable  joy  and  sadness — 
what  is  the  name  of  all  this  varying  demonstration  of 
beauty,  but  love  ? 

I  walked  beneath  the  trees,  slowly,  my  feet  nestling 
among  the  thickly-strewn  leaves,  and  pressing  a  faint 
aroma  from  the  moist  earth.  To  and  fro  for  a  long 
time  I  rambled,  thinking  no  tangible  thoughts,  but  my 
soul  silently  filling,  all  the  time,  like  a  fountain  fed  by 
secret  springs.  To  the  back  of  the  lawn,  extending 
around  and  behind  the  flower-garden,  was  a  little  ascent, 
covered  by  a  grove  of  elms  and  maples,  in  the  midst 
of  which  was  a  summer-house  which  had  been  a  favor- 
ite resort  of  Eleanor's.  Hither  I  finally  bent  my  steps, 
and  seating  myself,  looked  musingly  upon  the  lovely 
prospect  around  and  beneath  me.  The  rustic  temple 
opened  toward  the  river,  which  was  visible  from  here, 
rolling  in  its  blue  splendor  across  the  exquisite  land- 
scape. There  is  a  fascination  in  water  w.hich  will  keep 
the  eyes  fixed  upon  it  through  hours  of  reverie  ;  I  sat 
there,  mindful  of  the  near  mountains,  the  purple  mist, 
the  white  ships,  the  busy  village,  but  gazing  only  at 
the  blue  ripples  forever  slipping  away  from  the  point 
of  my  observation.  My  spirit  exhaled  like  the  mist  and 
ascended  in  aspiration.  My  grief  aspired,  and  arose  in 
passionate  prayers  to  the  white  throne  of  the  eternal 
justice — it  arose  in  tears,  etherealized  and  drawn  up  by 


90  THE   DEAD  LETTER. 

the  rays  from  the  one  great  source  and  sun — the  spirit 
of  Love.     I  prayed  and  wept  for  her.     No  thought  of 

['  mingled  with  these  emotions. 

Suddenly  a  slight  fhill  fell  upon  me.  I  started  to  per- 
ceive that  the  sun  had  set.  A  band  of  orange  belted 
the  west.  As  the  sun  dropped  behind  the  hills  the 
moon  came  up  in  the  east.  It  seemed  as  if  her  silver 
light  frosted  what  it  touched  ;  the  air  grew  sharp;  a 
thin,  white  cloud  spread  itself  over  tin  river.  I  hud 
sat  there  long  enough,  and  I  was  forcing  myself  t.»  a 
consciousness  of  the  fact,  when  I  saw  one  coming 
through  the  flower-garden  and  approaching  the'  summer- 

My  blood  paused  in  my  veins  when  1  saw  that  it  was 
Eleanor.  The  sunset  yet  lingered,  and  the  cold  moon- 
light shone  full  on  her  face.  I  remembered  how  I  had 
seen  her,  that  last  time  but  on.-,  glowing  and  flushing 
in  triumphant  beauty,  attired  with  the  most  skill. 
•  jaetry  of  a  young,  beloved  woman,  who  is  glad  of  her 
charms  because  another  pri/.cs  them. 

Now  she  came  alonir  the  loMMNM  path,  between  the 
withered  llow.-r-beds.  clothed  in  deepest  black,  walking 
with  a  feeble  step,  one  small  white  hand  hoi. ling  the 
gable  shawl  across  her  chest,  a  long  crape  vail  thrown 
,T  head,  from  which  her  face  looked  ,,ut,  white 
and  still. 

A  |»ang  like  that  of  death    Iran-fixed   me,  as  I  | 
at  her.     Not  one  rose  left  in  the   garden  of  her  young 
life!     The  ruin  through  which   she  walked  was  not  RO 
comjih-te— but  this  garden  \\  ..ill. I  •-,•!('  in  the 

months  of  another  spring — while  for  her  there  was  no 
Spring  on  this  side  of  the  •_-• 

A  !y  she  threaded  her  way,  with  bent  -a/e.  thr..ugh 
the  garden,  out  upon  the  hillside,  and  up  to  the  little 
ru-tic  temple  in  which  she  had  spent  so  many  happy 
hours  with  him.  When  she  had  reached  the  grassy 


SWEET   UNSELFISHNESS.  91 

platform  in  front  of  it,  she  raised  her  eyes  and  swept  a 
glance  around  upon  the  familiar  scene.  There  were  no 
tears  in  her  blue  eyes,  and  her  lips  did  not  quiver.  It 
was  not  until  she  had  encircled  the  horizon  with  that 
quiet,  beamless  look,  that  she  perceived  me.  I  rose  to 
my  feet,  my  expression  only  doing  reverence  to  her  sor- 
row, for  I  had  no  words. 

She  held  out  her  hand,  and  as  I  took  it,  she  said  with 
gentleness — as  if  her  sweetness  must  excuse  the  absence 
of  her  former  smiles, 

"  Are  you  well,  Richard  ?  You  look  thin.  Be  care- 
ful of  yourself — is  it  not  too  chilly  for  you  to  be  sitting 
here  at  this  hour  ?" 

I  pressed  her  hand,  and  turned  away,  vainly  endeav- 
oring to  command  my  voice,  /had  changed! — but  it 
was  like  Eleanor  to  put  herself  aside  and  remember 
others. 

"  Nay,  do  not  go,"  she  said,  as  she  saw  that  I  was 
leaving  her  out  of  fear  of  intruding  upon  her  visit,  "  I 
shall  remain  here  but  a  few  moments,  and  I  will  lean 
upon  your  arm  back  to  the  house.  I  am  not  strong, 
and  the  walk  up  the  hill  has  tired  me.  I  wanted  to  see 
you,  Richard.  I  thought  some  of  coming  down-stairs 
a  little  while  this  evening.  I  want  to  thank  you." 

The  words  were  just  whispered,  and  she  turned  im- 
mediately and  looked  away  at  the  river.  I  understood 
her  well.  She  Avanted  to  thank  me  for  the  spirit  which 
had  prompted  me  in  my  earnest,  though  unsuccessful 
efforts.  And  coming  down  to  the  family-group  a  little 
while  in  the  evening,  that  was  for  Mary's  sake,  and  her 
poor  father's.  Her  own  light  had  expired,  but  she  did 
not  wish  to  darken  the  hearthstone  any  more  than  was 
unavoidable.  She  sunk  down  upon  the  seat  I  had  va- 
cated, remaining  motionless,  looking  upon  the  river  and 
the  sky.  After  a  time,  with  a  long,  tremulous  sigh, 
she  arose  to  go.  A  gleam  from  the  west  fell  upon  a 


92  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

single  violet  which,  protected  from  the  frost  by  the  pro- 
jecting roof,  smiled  up  at  us,  near  the  door  of  tin4  sum- 
mer-house. With  a  wild  kind  of  pa>-i.«n  breaking 
through  her  quiet,  Eleanor  stooped,  gathered  it.  pr* 
it  to  her  lips,  and  burst  into  tears — it  was  her  favorite 
flower — Henry's  favorite. 

It  was  agony  to  see  her  cry,  yet  better,  perhaps,  than 
such  marble  repose.  She  was  too  weak  to  bear  this 
sudden  shock  alone ;  she  leaned  upon  'my  shoulder, 
sob  which  shook  her  frame  echoed  by  me.  ^  ! 
I  am  not  ashamed  to  confe---  it  !  When  manhood  is 
fresh  and  unsullied,  it<  tears  are  not  wrung  out  in  tlm-i; 
single  drops  of  mortal  BDgniah  which  the  rock 
forth  when  time  and  the  foot  of  the  world  have  harden- 
ed it.  I  could  still  remember  when  I  had  kis>cd  my 
mother,  and  wej>t  my  boyish  troubles  well  upon  her 
It,  I  should  have  been  harder  than  the  nether 
millstone,  had  I  not  wept  tears  with  Kleanor  then. 

I  mastered  myself  in  order  to  assist  her  to  regain 
composure,  for  I  was  alarmed  lest  the  violence  of  her 
emotion  should  break  down  the  remnant  of  her  Trail 
strength.  She,  too,  struggled  a^mM  the  storm,  soon 
growing  outwardly  calm,  and  with  the  violet  pi 
to  her  bosom  with  one  hand,  with  the  other  she  clung 
to  my  arm,  and  we  returned  to  the  house,  where  they 
were  already  looking  for  Kleanor. 

Under  the  full  light  of  the  hall-lamp  we  encountered 
James.  It  was  his  first  meeting  with  his  cousin  as  well 
as  mine.  He  gave  her  a  quick,  penetrating  look,  held 
out  his  hand,  his  lips  moved  as  if  striving  to  form  a 
greeting.  It  was  evident  that  the  change  was  greater 
than  he  expected;  lie  dropped  his  hand.  Let.. re  her 
fingers  had  touched  it,  and  rushing  past  us  through  the 
open  door,  he  closed  it  behind  him,  remaining  out  until 
long  after  tea. 

When  he  came  in,  Eleanor  had  retired  to  her  chamber, 


GLOOM.  93 

and  Mary  brought  him  the  cup  of  tea  which  she  had 
kept  hot  for  him. 

"  You  are  a  good  girl,  Mary,"  he  said,  drinking  it 
hastily,  as  if  to  get  rid  of  it.  "  I  hope  nobody  will 
ever  make  you  look  like  that !  I  thought  broken  hearts 
were  easily  mended — that  gii-ls  usually  had  theirs  bro- 
ken three  or  four  times,  and  patched  them  up  again — 
but  I  have  changed  my  mind." 

That  gloomy  look,  which  Mary  declared  she  dreaded, 
clouded  his  face  again.  His  countenance  was  most  var- 
iable ;  nothing  could  excel  it  in  glitter  and  brilliant  color 
when  he  was  in  his  pleasing  mood,  but  when  sullen  or 
sad,  it  was  sallow  and  lusterless.  Thus  it  looked  that 
evening.  But  I  must  close  this  chapter  now  and  here 
— it  is  consecrated  to  that  meeting  with  the  object  of 
my  sorrow  and  adoration,  and  I  will  not  prolong  it 
with  the  details  of  other  events. 


94  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

THE   HAUNTED   GRAVE. 

WHEX  I  returned  to  my  boarding-house  th.it 
evening,  I  found  a  telegram  awaiting  me  from  Mr.  Bur- 
ton, asking  me  to  come  down  to  the  city  in  the  morning. 
I  went  down  by  the  earlie>t  train,  and,  soon  after, ringing 
the  l»ell  at  the  door  of  his  private  residence  in  Twenty- 
third  street,  a  servant  ushered  me  into  the  library, 
where  I  found  the  master  of  the  house  so  absorbed  in 
thought,  as  he  sat  before  the  grate  with  his  eyes  bent 
upon  the  glowing  coals,  that  he  did  not  observe  my  en- 
trance until  I  spoke  his  name.  Springing  to  his  feet, 
he  shook  me  heartily  by  the  hand  ;  we  had  already  be- 
come warm  personal  frier, >1<. 

"  You  are  early,"  he  said,  "  but  so  much  the  better. 
We  will  have  the  more  time  for  business." 

M  Have  you  heard  any  thing?"  was  ray  first  ques- 
tion. 

•  \Vell,  no.  Don't  hope  that  I  have  called  you  here 
to  satisfy  you  with  any  positive  ,li-<-.)\  ei  ie>.  The  work 
goes  on  slowly.  I  was  never  so  baffled  but  once  bet'.  <n- ; 
ami  til. -n.  .1-  no\v.  there  was  a  woman  in  the  case.  A 
cunning  woman  will  elude  the  very  Prince  of  Lies, 
himself,  to  say  nothing  of  honest  men  like  us.  She  has 
been  after  the  child." 

"  She  has  ?" 

"  Yes.  And  has  taken  it  away  with  her.  And  now 
I  know  no  more  of  her  whereabouts  than  I  did  before. 
There!  You  must  certainly  feel  like  trusting  your 
case  to  some  sharper  person  to  work  up  " — he  looked 
mi  -I  -titied  as  he  said  it. 

Before  I  go  further  I  must  explain  to  my  reader  just 


SHAME    OB   BLAME.  95 

how  far  the  investigation  into  the  acts  and  hiding-place 
of  Leesy  Sullivan  had  proceeded.  Of  course  we  had 
called  upon  her  aunt  in  Blankville,  and  approached  the 
question  of  the  child  with  all  due  caution.  She  had 
answered  us  frankly  enough,  at  first — that  Leesy  had  a 
cousin  who  lived  in  New  York,  whom  she  was  much 
attached  to,  and  who  was  dead,  poor  thing  !  But  the 
moment  we  intruded  the  infant  into  the  conversation, 
she  flew  into  a  rage,  asked  if  "  we'd  come  there  to  in- 
sult a  respectable  widdy,  as  wasn't  responsible  for  what 
others  did  ?"  and  wouldn't  be  coaxed  or  threatened  into 
any  further  speech  on  the  subject,  fairly  driving  us  out 
of  the  room  and  (I  regret  to  add)  down  the  stairs  with 
the  broomstick.  As  we  could  not  summon  her  into  court 
and  compel  her  to  answer,  at  that  time,  we  were  com- 
pelled to  "  let  her  alone."  One  thing,  however,  became 
apparent  at  the  interview — that  there  was  shame  or 
blame,  or  at  least  a  family  quarrel,  connected  with  the 
child. 

After  that,  in  New  York,  Mr.  Burton  ascertained 
that  there  had  been  a  cousin,  who  had  died,  but  wheth- 
er she  had  been  married,  and  left  a  babe,  or  not,  was 
still  a  matter  of  some  doubt. 

He  had  spent  over  a  week  searching  for  Leesy  Sul- 
livan, in  the  vicinity  of  Blankville,  at  every  intermediate 
station  between  that  and  New  York,  and,  throughout 
the  city  itself,  assisted  by  scores  of  detectives,  who  all 
of  them  had  her  photograph,  taken  from  a  likeness 
which  Mr.  Burton  had  found  in  her  deserted  room  at 
her  boarding-place.  This  picture  must  have  been  taken 
more  than  a  year  previous,  as  it  looked  younger  and 
happier  ;  the  face  was  soft  and  round,  the  eye's  melting 
with  warmth  and  light,  and  the  rich,  dark  hair  dressed 
with  evident  care.  Still,  Leesy  bore  resemblance 
enough  to  her  former  self,  to  make  her  photograph  an 
efficient  aid.  Yet  not  one  trace  of  her  had  been  chanced 


90  THE   DEAD   LKTTEH. 

upon  since  I,  myself,  had  seen  her  fly  away  at  the  men- 
tion of  the  word  which  I  had  purposely  uttered,  and 
disappear  over  the  wooded  hill.  "We  h:ul  nearly  made 
up  our  minds  that  she  had  committed  suicide  ;  we  had 
searched  the  shore  for  miles  in  the  vicinity  of  Mori-land 
villa,  and  had  fired  guns  over  the  water ;  but  if  she 
had  hidden  herself  in  those  cold  depths,  she  had  done  it 
most  effectually. 

The  gardener's  wife,  at  the  villa,  had  kept  vigilant 
watch,  as  I  had  requested,  but  she  had  never  any  tiling 
to  report — the  sewing-girl  came  no  more  to  haunt  tin- 
piazza  or  the  summer-house.  Finally,  -Mr.  UnMoii  had 
given  over  active  measures,  relying  simply  upon  the 
presence  of  the  child  in  Now  York,  to  bring  back  tin- 
protectress  into  his  nets,  if  indeed  she  was  still  upon 
earth.  He  said  rightly,  that  if  she  were  concealed  and 
had  any  knowledge  of  the  etVorts  made  to  di»co\er  her, 
the  surest  means  of  hastening  her  reappearance  \\oiild 
be  to  apparently  nTnic|uish  all  pursuit,  lie  had  a  per- 
son hired  to  watch  the  premise*  of  the  nurse  constant  1\  ; 
a  person  who  took  a  room  next  to  hers  in  the  u -m -iiu-nt- 
housc  where  she  resided,  apparently  employed  in  knit- 
ting children's  fancy  woolen  garments,  but  really  for 
the  purpose  of  gi\ ing  immediate  notification  should 
the  guardian  of  tin-  infant  appear  upon  the  scene.  In 
the  mean  time  he  was  kept  informed  of  the  sentiments 
Of  the  nurse,  who  had  avowed  her  intention  of  throw- 
ing the  babe  upon  the  authorities,  if  it*  board  was  not 
paid  at  the  end  of  the  month.  "  Maid  enough,"  she 
avowed  it  was,  "to  get  the  praties  for  the  mouths  of 
her  own  chilther;  and  the  little  u'iil  \\as  growing 
large  now.  The  milk  wouldn't  do  at  all,  at  all,  )>ut 
she  must  have  her  praties  and  her  bit  bread  wid  the 
rest." 

In  answer  to  these  complaints,  the  wool-knitter  had 
professed  such  an  interest  in  the  innocent  little  thing, 


LITTLE   NORA.  97 

that,  sooner  than  allow  it  to  go  to  the  alms-house,  or 
to  the  orphan-asylum,  or  any  other  such  place,  she 
would  take  it  to  her  own  room,  and  share  her  portion 
with  it,  when  the  nurse's  month  was  up,  until  it  was 
certain  that  the  aunt  was  not  coming  to  see  after  it,  she 
said. 

With  this  understanding  between  them,  the  two  wo- 
men got  along  finely  together ;  little  Nora,  just  tod- 
dling about,  was  a  pretty  child,  and  her  aunt  had  not 
spared  stitches  in  making  up  her  clothes,  which  were 
of  good  material,  and  ornamented  with  lavish  tucks 
and  embroidery.  She  was  often,  for  half  a  day  at  a 
time,  in  the  room  with  the  new  tenant,  when  her  nurse 
was  out  upon  errands,  or  at  work ;  and  the  former 
sometimes  took  her  out  in  her  arms  for  a  breath  of  air 
upon  the  better  streets.  Mr.  Burton  had  seen  little 
Nora  several  times ;  he  thought  she  resembled  Miss 
Sullivan,  though  not  strikingly.  She  had  the  same 
eyes,  dark  and  bright. 

Two  days  before  Mr.  Burton  telegraphed  for  me  to 
come  down  to  New  York,  Mrs.  Barber,  the  knitting 
detective,  was  playing  with  the  child  in  her  own  room. 
It  was  growing  toward  night,  and  the  nurse  was  out 
getting  her  Saturday  afternoon  supplies  at  Washington 
Market ;  she  did  not  expect  her  back  for  at  least  an 
hour.  Little  Nora  was  in  fine  spirits,  being  delighted 
with  a  blue-and-Avhite  hood  which  her  friend  had  manu- 
factured for  her  curly  head.  As  they  frolicked  to- 
gether, the  door  opened,  a  young  woman  came  in, 
caught  the  child  to  her  breast,  kissed  it,  and  cried. 
"  An-nee — an-nee,"  lisped  the  baby — and  Mrs.  Barber, 
slipping  out,  with  the  excuse  that  she  would  go  for  the 
nurse,  who  was  at  a  neighbor's,  jumped  into  a  car,  and 
rode  up  to  Twenty-third  street.  In  half  an  hour  Mr. 
Burton  was  at  the  tenement-house ;  the  nurse  had  not 
yet  returned  from  market,  and  the  bird  had  flown, 


98  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

carrying  the  baby  with  her.  He  was  sufficiently  an- 
noyed at  this  denotement.  In  the  arrangement  made, 
the  fact  of  the  nurse  being  away  had  not  been  conu-m- 
plated;  there  was  no  one  to  keep  on  the  track  of  the 
fugitive  while  the  officer  was  notified.  One  of  the 
children  said  that  the  lady  had  left  some  money  for 
mother;  there  was,  lying  on  the  table,  a  sura  which 
more  than  covered  the  arrears  due,  and  a  note  of 
thanks.  But  the  baby,  with  its  little  cloak  and  its  new 
blue  hood,  had  vanished.  Word  was  dispatched  to  the 
various  offices,  and  the  night  spent  in  looking  lor  the 
two  ;  but  there  is  no  place  like  a  great  city  for  eluding 
pursuit ;  and  up  to  the  hour  of  my  arrival  at  Mr.  Bur- 
ton's he  had  learned  nothing. 

All  this  had  fretted  the  detective ;  I  could  sec  it, 
although  he  did  not  say  as  much.  He  who  had  brought 
hundreds  of  accomplished  rogues  to  justice  did  not 
like  to  be  foiled  by  a  woman.  Talking  on  the  subject 
with  me,  as  we  sat  before  the  fire  in  his  library,  with 
closed  doors,  he  said  the  most  terrible  antagonist  he 
had  yet  encountered  had  been  a  \vuinan— that  her  will 
was  a  match  for  his  own,  yet  he  had  broken  with  ease 
the  spirits  of  the  boldest  men. 

"  However,"1  In-  a<l.i  ->ullivan  is  n<>t  a  wo- 

man of  that  stamp.  If  */«;  has  committed  a  crime,  she 
has  done  it  in  a  moment  of  ]>:I:-M«M,  ami  iv:n.ir-r  will 
kill  her,  though  the  vengeance  of  the  law  should  i 
overtake  her.  But  she  is  subtle  and  elusive.  It  is  not 
reason  that  makes  her  cunning, but  feeling.  With  man 
it  would  be  reason  ;  and  as  I  could  follow  the  course 
of  his  argument,  whichever  path  it  took,  I  should  soon 
overtake  it.  But  a  woman,  working  from  a  passion, 
either  of  hate  or  love,  will  sometimes  come  to  t»uch 
novel  conclusions  as  to  defy  the  sharpest  guesses  of  the 
intellect.  I  should  like,  above  all  things,  a  quiet  con- 
versation with  that  girl.  And  I  will  have  it,  some  day." 


RETICENCE.  99 

The  determination  with  which  he  avowed  himself, 
showed  that  he  had  no  idea  of  giving  up  the  case.  A 
few  other  of  his  observations  I  will  repeat : 

He  said  that  the  blow  which  killed  Henry  Morel  and 
was  given  by  a  professional  murderer,  a  man,  without 
conscience  or  remorse,  probably  a  hireling.  A  woman 
may  have  tempted,  persuaded,  or  paid  him  to  do  the 
deed ;  if  so,  the  guilt  rested  upon  her  in  its  awful 
weight;  but  no  woman's  hand,  quivering  with  passion, 
had  driven  that  steady  and  relentless  blow.  It  was 
not  given  by  the  hand  of  jealousy — it  was  too  coldly 
calculated,  too  firmly  executed — no  passion,  no  thrill 
of  feeling  about  it. 

"Then  you  think,"  said  I,  "that  Leesy  Sullivan 
robbed  the  family  whose  happiness  she  was  about  to 
destroy,  to  pay  some  villain  to  commit  the  murder  ?" 

"  It  looks  like  it,"  he  answered,  his  eye  dropping 
evasively. 

I  felt  that  I  was  not  fully  in  the  detective's  confi- 
dence ;  there  was  something  working  powerfully  in  his 
mind,  to  which  he  gave  me  no  clue ;  but  I  had  so  much 
faith  in  him  that  I  was  not  offended  by  his  reticence. 
Anxious  as  I  was,  eager,  curious — if  it  suits  to  call 
such  a  devouring  fire  of  longing  as  I  felt,  curiosity — 
he  must  have  known  that  I  perceived  his  reservations ; 
if  so,  he  had  his  own  way  of  conducting  matters,  from 
which  he  could  not  diverge  for  my  passing  benefit. 
Twelve  o'clock  came,  as  we  sat  talking  before  the  fire, 
which  gave  a  genial  air  to  the  room,  though  almost 
unnecessary,  the  "  squaw  winter"  of  the  previous  morn- 
ing being  followed  by  another  balmy  and  sunlit  day. 
Mr.  Burton  rung  for  lunch  to  be  brought  in  where  we 
were  ;  and  while  we  sipped  the  stron'g  coffee,  and 
helped  ourselves  to  the  contents  of  the  tray,  the  serv- 
ant being  dismissed,  my  host  made  a  proposition 
which  had  evidently  been  on  bis  mind  all  the  morniug. 


100  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

I  was  already  so  familiar  with  his  personal  surround- 
ings as  to  kno\v  that  he  was  a  widower,  with  two 
children  ;  the  eldest,  a  boy  of  fifteen,  away  at  school ; 
the  second,  a  girl  of  eleven,  of  delicate  health,  and 
educated  at  home, so  far  as  she  studied  at  all,  by  a  day- 
governess.  I  had  never  seen  this  daughter — Lem>;v, 
he  called  her — but  I  could  guess,  without  particular 
shrewdness,  that  his  In-art  was  wrapped  up  in  her.  He 
could  not  mention  her  name  without  a  glow  coming 
into  his  face;  her  frail  health  appeared  to  In-  the 
anxiety  of  his  life.  I  could  hear  her,  now,  taking  ;i 
singing-lesson  in  a  dUtant  apartment,  and  as  her  pure 
voice  rose  clear  and  high,  mounting  and  mounting  with 
airy  steps  the  difficult  scale,  I  listened  delightedly, 
making  a  picture  in  my  mind  of  the  graceful  littlo 
creature  such  a  voice  should  belong  to. 

Her  father  was  listening,  too,  with  a  smile  in  Iii-  e\  e, 
half  forgetful  of  his  coffee.  Presently  he  said,  in  a 
low  voice,  speaking  at  lirst  with  some  reluctance, 

"I  sent  for  you  to-day,  more  particularly  to  make 
you  the  confidential  witm--*  <•!'  an  experiment  than  any 
tiling  else.  You  hear  my  Lcnore  singing  now — has 
she  not  a  sweet  voice  ?  I  have  told  you  how  delicate 
her  health  is.  I  discovered,  by  chance,  some  two  or 
three  years  since,  that  she  had  peculiar  attril 
She  is  an  excellent  clairvoyant.  When  1  fust  di-f-v- 
il,  I  made  UM-  of  her  rare  faculty  to  assist  me 
in  my  more  important  labors;  but  I  soon  d'iM ••••. 
that  it  told  fearfully  upon  her  health.  It  seemed 
to  drain  the  slender  stream  of  vitality  nearly  dry.  Our 
physician  told  mo  that  I  must  desist,  entirely,  all  ex- 
periments of  the  kind  with  her.  He  was  peremptory 
about  it,  but  he  had  only  need  to  caution  inc.  I  would 
sooner  drop  a  year  out  of  my  shortening  future  than 
to  take  one  grain  from  that  increasing  strength  which 
I  watch  from  day  to  day  with  deep  solicitude.  She  is 


ME.  BURTON'S  TREASURE.  101 

my  only  girl,  Mr.  Bedfield,  and  the  image  of  her  de- 
parted mother.  You  must  not  wonder  if  I  am  foolish 
about  my  Lenore.  For  eighteen  months  I  have  not 
exercised  my  power  over  her  to  place  her  in  the  trance 
state,  or  whatever  it  is,  in  which,  with  the  clue  in  her 
hand,  she  will  unwind  the  path  to  more  perplexed  laby- 
rinths than  those  of  the  fair  one's  bower.  And  I  tell 
you,  solemnly,  that  if,  by  so  doing,  she  could  point 
out  pots  of  gold,  or  the  secrets  of  diamond  mines,  I 
would  not  risk  her  slightest  welfare,  by  again  exhaust- 
ing her  recruiting  energies.  Nevertheless,  so  deeply 
am  I  interested  in  the  tragedy  to  which  you  have 
called  my  attention — so  certain  am  I  that  I  am  on  the 
eve  of  the  solution  of  the  mystery — and  such  an  act  of 
justice  and  righteousness  do  I  deem  it  that  it  should 
be  exposed  in  its  naked  truth  before  those  who  have 
suffered  from  the  crime — that  I  have  resolved  to  place 
Lenore  once  more  in  the  clairvoyant  state,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  ascertaining  the  hiding-place  of  Leesy  Sullivan, 
and  I  have  sent  for  you  to  witness  the  result." 

This  announcement  took  away  the  remnant  of  my 
appetite.  Mr.  Burton  rung  to  have  the  tray  removed, 
and  to  bid  the  servant  tell  Miss  Lenore,  as  soon  as  she 
had  lunched,  to  come  to  the  library.  We  had  but  a 
few  minutes  to  wait.  Presently  we  heard  a  light  step  ; 
her  father  cried,  "  Come  in  !"  in  answer  to  her  knock, 
and  a  lovely  child  entered,  greeting  me  with  a  mingled 
air  of  grace  and  timidity — a  vision  of  sweetness  and 
beauty  more  perfect  than  I  could  have  anticipated. 
Her  golden  hair  waved  about  her  slender  throat,  in 
glistening  tendrils.  Seldom  do  we  see  such  hair,  ex- 
cept upon  the  heads  of  infants — soft,  lustrous,  fine, 
floating  at  will,  and  curled  at  the  end  in  little  shining 
rings.  Her  eyes  were  a  celestial  blue — celestial,  not 
only  because  of  the  pure  heavenliness  of  their  color,  but 
because  you  could  not  look  into  them  without  thinking 


102  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

of  angels.  Her  complexion  was  the  most  exqnisito 
possible,  fair,  with  a  flush  as  of  sunset-light  on  the 
checks — too  transparent  for  perfect  health,  showing  the 
wandering  of  the  delicate  veins  in  the  temples.  Her 
blue  dress,  with  its  fluttering  sash,  and  the  little  jacket 
of  white  cashmere  which  shielded  her  neck  nnd  anus, 
were  all  dainty,  and  in  keeping  with  the  wearer. 
did  not  have  the  serene  air  of  a  seraph,  though  she 
looked  like  one  ;  nor  the  listless  manner  of  an  invalid. 
She  gave  her  father  a  most  winning,  childish  smile, 
looking  full  of  joy  to  think  he  was  at  home,  and  had 
sent  for  her.  She  was  so  every  way  charming  that  I 
held  out  my  arms  to  kiss  her,  and  she,  with  the  instinct 
of  children,  who  perceive  who  their  real  love: 
gave  me  a  willing  yet  shy  embrace.  .Mr.  IJnrlon  looked 
pleased  as  he  saw  how  satisfactory  was  the  imp:  • 
m:.de  by  his  Lenore. 

Placing  her  in  a  chair  before  him,  he  put  a  photo- 
graph of  Miss  Sullivan  in  her  hand. 

"  Father  wants  to  put  his  little  girl  to  sleep  again/' 
he  said,  gently. 

An  e\pre- ion  of  unwillingness  just  crossed  he: 
but  she  smiled,   instantly,  looking  up  at    him  with  the 
faith  of  affection   which  would  have    placed  her  lite  in 
his  keeping,  and  said,  "  Yes,  papa,"  in  assent. 

He  made  a  few  passes  over  her;  when  I  saw  their 
effect,  I  did  not  wonder  that  he  shrunk  from  the  ex- 
periment—my  surprise  was  rather  that  lie  conld  be  in- 
diiccd  to  make  it.  under  :;ny  circumstances.  The  '• 
face  became  distorted  as  with  pain;  the  little  hand* 
twitched — so  did  the  lips  and  eyelids.  I  turned  : 
not  having  fortitude  to  witness  any  thing  so  jarring  to 
my  sensibilities.  When  I  looked  again,  her  counten- 
ance had  recovered  its  tranquillity  ;  the  eyes  were  fast 
closed,  but  she  appeared  to  ponder  upon  the  picture 
which  she  held. 


A   SPIRIT-JOURNEY.          •  103 

"  Do  you  see  the  person  now  ?" 

"  Yes,  papa." 

"  In  what  kind  of  a  place  is  she  ?" 

"  She  is  in  a  small  room  ;  it  has  two  windows.  There 
is  no  carpet  on  the  floor.  There  is  a  bed  and  a  table,  a 
stove  and  some  chairs.  It  is  in  the  upper  story  of  a 
large  brick  house,  I  do  not  know  in  what  place." 

"  What  is  she  doing  ?" 

"  She  is  sitting  near  the  back  windoAV  ;  it  looks  out 
on  the  roofs  of  other  houses ;  she  is  holding  a  pretty 
little  child  on  her  lap." 

"  She  must  be  in  the  city,"  remarked  Mr.  Burton, 
aside ;  "  the  large  house  and  the  congregated  roofs 
would  imply  it.  Can  you  not  tell  me  the  name  of  the 
street  ?" 

"  No,  I  can  not  see  it.  I  was  never  in  this  place  be- 
fore. I  can  see  water,  as  I  look  out  of  the  window. 
It  appears  like  the  bay ;  and  I  see  plenty  of  ships,  but 
there  is  some  green  land  across  the  water,  besides  dis- 
tant houses." 

"  It  must  be  somewhere  in  the  suburbs,  or  in  Brook- 
lyn. Are  there  no  signs  on  the  shops,  which  you  can 
read,  as  you  look  out  ?" 

"  No,  papa." 

"  Well,  go  down  the  stairs,  and  out  upon  the  street, 
and  tell  me  the  number  of  the  house." 

"  It  is  No.  — ,"  she  said,  after  a  few  moments'  silence. 

"  Go  along  until  you  come  to  a  corner,  and  read  me 
the  name  of  the  street." 

"  Court  street,"  she  answered,  presently. 

"It  is  in  Brooklyn,"  exclaimed  the  detective,  tri- 
umphantly. "  There  is  nothing  now  to  prevent  us  going 
straight  to  the  spot.  Lenore,  go  back  now,  to  the 
house ;  tell  us  on  which  floor  is  this  room,  and  how 
situated." 

Again  there  was  silence  while  she  retraced  her  steps. 


104  THE  DEAD  LETTER. 

"  It  is  on  the  fourth  floor,  the  first  door  to  the  left, 
as  you  reach  the  landing." 

Leuore  began  to  look  weary  and  exhausted ;  the 
sweat  broke  out  on  her  brow,  and  she  panted  as  it'  i'a- 
tigued  with  climbing  flights  of  stairs.  Her  father, 
with  a  regretful  air,  wiped  her  forehead,  kissing  it  ten- 
derly as  he  did  so.  A  few  more  of  those  c:d>ali-tic 
touches,  followed  by  the  same  painful  contortions  of 
those  beautiful  features,  and  Lenore  was  herself  again. 
But  she  was  pale  and  languid;  she  drooped  against. 
her  father's  breast,  as  he  held  her  in  his  arm.-,  the  color 
faded  from  her  cheeks,  too  listless  to  smile  in  answer 
to  his  caresses.  Placing  her  on  the  sofa,  lie  t"<>k  (nun 
a  nook  in  his  secretary  a  bottle  of  old  port,  poured  out 
a  tiny  glassful,  and  gave  to  her.  The  wine  revived 
her  almost  in.-tantly  ;  the  smiles  and  bloom  came  baek, 
though  she  still  seemed  exceedingly  weary. 

••  She  will  be  like  a  person  exhausted  by  a  long  jour- 
ney, or  great  labor,  for  several  days,"  said  Mr.  Hurt  on, 
as  I  watched  the  child.  "  It  cost  me  a  pang  to  make 
such  a  demand  upon  her;  I  hope  it  will  be  the  la-t 
linn — at  least  until  she  is  older  and  stronger  than  now." 

"I  should  think  the  application  of  electricity  would 
restore  some  of  the  vitality  which  has  been  taken  from 
her,"  I  suggested. 

"  I  shall  try  it  this  evening,"  was  his  reply ;  "  in  the 
mean  time,  if  wo  intend  to  benefit  by  the  sacrifice  of 
my  little  Lenore,  let  us  lose  no  time.  Something  may 
occur  to  send  the  fugitive  flying  again.  And  n«.u .  my 
dear  little  girl,  you  must  lie  down  :v  while  this  after- 
noon, and  bo  careful  of  yourself.  You  shall  dim  \\ith 
us  to-night,  if  you  are  not  too  tired,  and  we  shall  l»ring 
yon  some  flowers — a  bouquet  from  old  John's  con 
tory,  s 

Committing  his  darling  to  the  housekeeper's  char-e, 
with  many  instructions  and  warnings,  and  a  lingering 


VACANCY.  105 

look  which  betrayed  his  anxiety,  Mr.  Burton  was  soon 
ready,  and  we  departed,  taking  a  stage  for  Fulton 
Ferry  a  little  after  one  o'clock. 

About  an  hour  and  a  quarter  brought  us  to  the  brick 
house  on  Court  street,  far  out  toward  the  suburbs, 
which  had  the  number  indicated  upon  it.  No  one 
questioned  our  coming,  it  being  a  tenement-house,  and 
we  ascended  a  long  succession  of  stairs,  until  we  came 
to  the  fourth  floor,  and  stood  before  the  door  on  the 
left-hand  side.  I  trembled  a  little  with  excitement. 
My  companion,  laying  his  hand  firmly  on  the  knob, 
was  arrested  by  finding  the  door  locked.  At  this  he 
knocked ;  but  there  was  no  answer  to  his  summons. 
Amid  the  assortment  of  keys  which  he  carried  with 
him,  he  found  one  to  fit  the  lock  ;  in  a  moment  the  door 
stood  open,  and  we  entered  to  meet — blank  solitude  ! 

The  room  had  evidently  been  deserted  but  a  short 
time,  and  by  some  one  expecting  to  return.  There 
was  a  fire  covered  down  in  the  stove,  and  three  or  four 
potatoes  in  the  oven  to  be  baked  for  the  humble  supper. 
There  was  no  trunk,  no  chest,  no  clothing  in  the  room, 
only  the  scant  furniture  which  Lenore  had  described,  a 
few  dishes  in  the  cupboard,  and  some  cooking  utensils, 
which  had  been  rented,  probably,  with  the  room.  On 
the  table  were  two  things  confirmatory  of  the  occu- 
pants— a  bowl,  containing  the  remains  of  a  child's 
dinner  of  bread-and-milk,  and  a  piece  of  embroidery — 
a  half-finished  collar. 

At  Mr.  Burton's  request  I  went  down  to  the  shop 
on  the  first  floor,  and  inquired  in  what  direction  the 
young  woman  with  the  child  had  gone,  and  how  long 
she  had  been  out. 

"  She  went,  maybe,  half  an  hour  ago ;  she  took  the 
little  girl  out  for  a  walk,  I  think.     She  told  me  she'd 
be  back  before  supper,  when  she  stopped  to  pay  for  a 
bit  of  coal,  and  to  have  it  carried  up." 
5* 


106  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

I  returned  with  this  information. 

"I'm  sorry,  now,  that  we  inquired,"  said  the  detect- 
ive; "that  fellow  will  be  sure  to  see  her  first,  and 
tell  her  that  she  has  had  callers ;  that  will  frighten  her 
at  once.  I  must  go  below,  and  keep  my  watch  from 
there." 

"  If  you  do  not  care  for  a  second  person  to  watch 
with  you,  I  believe  I  will  go  on  to  Greenwood.  We 
are  so  near  it,  now,  and  I  would  like  to  visit  poor 
Henry's  grave." 

li  I  do  not  need  you  at  all  now ;  only,  do  not  be  ab- 
sent too  long.  When  I  meet  this  Leesy  Sullivan, 
whom  I  have  not  yet  seen,  you  remember,  I  want  a 
long  talk  with  her.  The  last  object  I  have  is  to  frighten 
her;  I  shall  seek  to  soothe  her  instead.  If  I  can  once 
meet  her  face  to  face,  and  voice  to  voice,  I  l)elie\e  I 
can  tame  the  antelope,  or  the  lioness,  whichever  she 
turns  out  to  be.  I  do  not  think  I  shall  have  to  coerce 
her — not  even  if  she  is  guilty.  If  she  is  guilty  she 
will  give  herself  up.  I  may  even  take  her  home  to 
dinner  with  us,"  he  added,  with  a  smile.  "Don't 
hhu  liler,  Mr.  Ucd  field;  we  often  dine  in  company  with 
murderers — sometimes  when  we  have  only  our  friends 
and  neighbors  with  UH.  I  a-.mv  \->u  I  have  often  had 
that  honor!" 

His  grim  humor  was  melancholy  to  me — but  who 
could  wonder  that  a  man  of  Mr.  Urn  ton's  peculi 
perience  should  be  touched  with  cynicism?  Hesides, 
I  felt  that  there  was  more  in  the  inner  meaning  of  his 
words  than  appeared  upon  their  outer  surface.  I  left 
him.  sitting  in  a  sheltered  corner  of  the  shop  below,  in 
a  position  where  he  could  command  the  street  MM!  the 
entrance-hall  without  being  himself  observed,  and  mak- 
ing himself  friendly  with  the  Imsy  little  man  behind 
the  counter,  of  whom  he  had  already  purchased  a  pint 
of  chestnut*.  It  would  be  as  well  that  I  should  be 


THE   SILENT  CITY.  107 

out  of  the  way.  Miss  Sullivan  knew  me,  and  might 
take  alarm  at  some  distant  glimpse  of  me,  while  Mr. 
Burton's  person  must  be  unknown  to  her,  unless  she 
had  been  the  better  detective  of  the  two,  and  marked 
him  when  he  was  ignorant  of  her  vicinity. 

Stepping  into  a  passing  car,  in  a  few  minutes  I  had 
gone  from  the  city  of  the  living  to  the  city  of  the  dead. 
Beautiful  and  silent  city !  There  the  costly  and  gleaming 
portals,  raised  at  the  entrance  of  those  mansions,  tell  us 
the  name  and  age  of  the  inhabitants,  but  the  inhabitants 
themselves  we  never  behold.  Knock  as  loud  and  long 
as  we  may  at  those  marble  doors,  cry,  entreat,  implore, 
they  hold  themselves  invisible.  Nevermore  are  they 
"  at  home "  to  us.  We,  who  once  were  never  kept 
waiting,  must  go  from  the  threshold  now,  without  a 
word  of  welcome.  City  of  the  dead — to  which  that 
city  of  the  living  must  soon  remove — who  is  there  that 
can  walk  thy  silent  streets  without  a  pi-escience  of  the 
time  when  he,  too,  will  take  up  his  abode  in  thee  for 
ever  ?  Strange  city  of  solitude !  where  thousands 
whose  homes  are  ranged  side  by  side,  know  not  one 
the  other,  and  give  no  greeting  to  the  pale  new-comers. 

With  meditations  like  these,  only  far  too  solemn  for 
words,  I  wandered  through  the  lovely  place,  where, 
still-,  summer  seemed  to  linger,  as  if  loth  to  quit  the 
graves  she  beautified.  With  Eleanor  and  Henry  in 
my  heart,  I  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  family  burial- 
plot,  wishing  that  Eleanor  were  with  me  on  that  glo- 
rious day,  that  she  might  first  behold  his  grave  under 
such  gentle  auspices  of  light,  foliage  and  flowers — for 
I  knew  that  she  contemplated  a  pilgrimage  to  this 
spot,  as  soon  as  her  strength  would  warrant  the 
attempt. 

I  approached  the  spot  by  a  winding  path ;  the  soft 
plash  of  a  fountain  sounded  through  a  little  thicket  of 
evergreens,  and  I  saw  the  gleam  of  the  wide  basin 


108  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

into  which  it  fell ;  a  solitary  bird  ponred  forth  a  mourn- 
ful flood  of  lamentation  from  some  high  branch  not  far 
away.  It  required  but  little  aid  of  fancy  to  hear  in 
that  "  melodious  madness"  the  cry  of  some  broken 
In-art,  haunting,  in  the  form  of  this  "bird,  the  place  of 
the  loved  one's  sleep. 

There  were  other  wanderers  than  myself  in  the  cem- 
etery ;  a  funeral  train  was  coming  through  the  gate  as 
I  passed  in,  and  I  met  another  within  a  few  steps ;  but 
in  the  secluded  path  where  I  now  walked  I  was  alone. 
With  the  slow  steps  of  one  who  meditates  sad  things, 
I  approached  Henry's  grave.  Gliding  away  by  another 
devious  path,  I  saw  a  female  figure. 

"  It  is  some  other  mourner,  whom  I  have  disturbed 
from  her  vigil  by  some  of  these  tombs,"  I  thought— 
"  or,  perchance,  one  who  was  passing  further  on  before 
reaching  the  goal  of  her  grief," — and  with  this  I  dis- 
missed her  from  my  mind,  having  had,  at  the  best, 
only  an  indistinct  glimpse  of  the  woman,  and  the  mo- 
mentary flutter  of  her  garments  as  she  passed  beyond 
a  group  of  tall  shrubs  and  was  lost  to  vii -w. 

The  next  moment  I  knelt  by  the  sod  which  covered 
that  youiiLC  :m<l  noble  form.  Do  not  think  me  extrava- 
gant in  my  emotions.  I  was  not  so— only  overpo\\ 
always,  by  intense  sympathy  with  the  sufferers  by  that 
calamity.  I  had  so  mused  upon  Eleanor's  sorrow  that 
I  hail.  a>  it  were,  made  it  mine.  I  bowed  my  head, 
breathing  a  prayer  for  her,  then  leaning  against  the 
trunk  of  a  tree  whose  leaves  no  longer  afforded  shade 
to  the  carefully-cultivated  family  inclosure,  my  eyes  fell 
upon  the  grave.  There  were  beautiful  flowers  failing 
upon  it,  which  some  friendly  hand  had  laid  there  with- 
in a  week  or  two.  Ten  or  fifteen  minutes  I  may  have 
passed  in  reverie  ;  then,  as  I  arose  to  depart,  I  took  up 
a  fading  bud  or  two  and  a  sprig  of  myrtle,  placing 
them  in  my  vest-pocket  to  give  Eleanor  on  my  return. 


WATCHING.  109 

As  I  stooped  to  gather  them,  I  perceived  the  imprint 
of  a  child's  foot,  here  and  there,  all  about  the  grave — a 
tiny  imprint,  in  the  fresh  mold,  as  of  some  toddling  babe 
whose  little  feet  had  hardly  learned  to  steady  themselves. 

There  were  one  or  two  marks  of  a  woman's  slender 
shoe  ;  but  it  was  the  infant  feet  which  impressed  me. 
It  flashed  upon  me  what  female  figure  it  was  which 
I  had  seen  flitting  away  as  I  approached  ;  now  that  I 
recalled  it,  I  even  recognized  the  tall,  slender  form, 
with  the  slight  stoop  of  the  shoulders,  of  which  I  had 
obtained  but  a  half-glance.  I  hastily  pursued  the  path 
she  had  taken  ;  but  my  haste  was  behind  hers  by  at 
least  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

I  realized  that  I  would  only  lose  time  by  looking  for 
her  in  those  winding  avenues,  every  one  of  which  might 
be  taking  me  from  instead  of  toward  the  fugitives  ;  so 
I  turned  back  to  the  gate  and  questioned  the  keeper  if 
he  had  seen  a  tall  young  woman  with  a  little  child  pass 
out  in  the  last  half-hour.  He  had  seen  several  children 
and  women  go  out  in  that  time ;  and  as  I  could  not  tell 
how  this  particular  one  was  dressed,  I  could  not  arouse 
his  recollection  to  any  certainty  on  the  point. 

"  She  was  probably  carrying  the  child,"  I  said ;  "  she 
had  a  consumptive  look,  and  was  sad-looking,  though 
her  face  was  doubtless  hidden  in  her  vail." 

"  It's  quite  likely,"  he  responded  ;  "  mostly  the  wo- 
men that  do  come  here  look  sad,  and  many  of  them 
keep  their  vails  down.  However,  it's  my  impression 
there  hasn't  no  child  of  that  age  been  past  here,  lately. 
I  noticed  one  going  in  about  two  o'clock,  and  if  it's 
that  one,  she  hasn't  come  out  yet." 

So  while  Mr.  Burton  sat  in  the  shop  in  Court  street 
keeping  watch,  I  sat  at  the  gates  of  Greenwood ;  bat 
no  Leesy  Sullivan  came  forth ;  and  when  the  gates 
were  closed  for  the  night,  I  was  obliged  to  go  away 
disappointed. 


110  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

The  girl  began  to  grow  some  elusive  phantom  in  my 
miiul.  I  could  almost  doubt  that  there  was  any  such 
creature,  with  black,  wild  eyes  and  hectic  cheeks,  whom 
I  was  pursuing;  whom  I  chanced  upon  in  strange 
places,  at  unexpected  times,  but  could  never  find  when 
I  sought  her — who  seemed  to  blend  herself  in  this  un- 
warrantable way  with  the  tragedy  which  wrung  some 
other  hearts.  What  had  she  to  do  with  I  li-m  \  ">  gr*fl '.' 
A  feeling  of  dislike,  of  mortal  aversion,  grew  upon 
me — I  could  not  pity  her  any  more — this  dark  spirit 
who,  having  perchance  wrought  this  irremediable  woe, 
could  not  now  sink  into  the  depths  where  she  belonged, 
but  must  haunt  and  hover  on  the  edges  of  ray  trouble, 
fretting  me  to  follow  her,  only  to  mock  and  elude. 

Before  leaving  the  cemetery  I  offered  two  policemen 
a  hundred  dollars  if  they  should  succeed  in  detaining 
tl.e  woman  and  child  whose  description  I  gave  them, 
until  word  could  be  sent  to  the  office  of  the  det« 
police;  and  I  left  them,  with  another  on  guard  at  the 
gates,  perambulating  the  grounds,  peering  into  vaults 
and  ghostly  places  in  search  of  her.  When  I  got  out 
at  the  house  on  Court  street,  I  found  my  friend  quite 
tired  of  eating  chestnuts  and  talking  to  the  little  man 
behind  tin-  counter. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "the  potatoes  will  be  roasted  to 
death  In-fore  their  owner  returns.  We  have  been  led 
another  wild-goose  chase.** 

"  I  have  seen  her,"  I  answered. 

"  \V 

"  And  lost  her.  I  believe  she  is  a  little  snaky,  she 
ban  such  a  slipp-ry  way  with  her." 

"  Tut !  tut !  so  has  a  frightened  deer !  But  how  did 
it  happen?" 

I  told  him,  and  he  was  quite  downcast  at  the  unlucky 
fortune  which  had  sent  me  to  the  cemetery  at  that  par- 
ticular time.  It  was  evident  that  she  had  seen  me,  and 


IN  THE   BOOM.  Ill 

was  afraid  to  return  to  this  new  retreat,  for  fear  she 
was  again  tracked. 

"  However,"  said  he,  "  I'm  confident  we'll  have  her 
now  before  long.  I  must  go  home  to-night  to  see  my 
Lenore ;  I  promised  her,  and  she  will  make  herself  sick 
sitting  up." 

"  Go  ;  and  let  me  remain  here.  I  will  stay  until  it 
it  is  perfectly  apparent  that  she  does  not  expect  to  re- 
turn." 

"  It  will  spoil  the  dinner.  But,  now  that  we  have 
saci'iticed  so  much,  a  few  hours  more  of  inconven- 
ience— " 

"  Will  be  willingly  endured.  I  will  get  some  bread 
and  cheese  and  a  glass  of  beer  of  your  friend,  the  penny- 
grocer,  and  remain  at  my  post." 

"You  need  not  stay  later  than  twelve;  which  will 
bring  you  home  about  two,  at  the  slow  rate  of  midnight 
travel.  I  shall  sit  up  for  you.  Au  revoir" 

I  changed  my  mind  about  supping  at  the  grocer's  as 
the  twilight  deepened  into  night.  The  dim  light  of  the 
hall  and  staircase,  part  of  them  in  total  darkness,  en- 
abled me  to  steal  up  to  the  deserted  room  unperceived 
by  any  one  of  the  other  inmates  of  the  great  building. 

Here  I  put  fresh  coal  on  the  fire,  and  by  the  faint 
glow  which  soon  came  from  the  open  front  of  the  stove, 
I  found  a  chair,  and  placing  it  so  that  it  would  be  in  the 
shadow  upon  the  opening  of  the  door,  I  seated  myself 
to  await  the  return  of  the  occupants.  The  odor  of 
roasting  potatoes,  given  forth  at  the  increased  heat, 
admonished  me  that  I  had  partaken  of  but  a  light  lunch 
since  an  early  and  hasty  breakfast ;  drawing  forth  one 
from  the  oven,  I  made  a  frugal  meal  upon  it,  and  then 
ordered  my  soul  to  patience.  I  sat  long  in  the  twilight 
of  the  room  ;  I  could  hear  the  bells  of  the  city  chiming 
the  passing  hours;  the  grocer  and  variety-storekeepers 
closing  the  shutters  of  their  shops ;  the  shuffling  feet 


112  THE   DEAD  LETTEB. 

of  men  coming  home,  to  such  homes  as  thcyhrul  in  the 
dreary  building,  until  nearly  all  the  noises  of  the  street 
and  house  died  away. 

Gazing  on  the  fire,  I  wondered  where  that  strange 
woman  was  keeping  that  little  child  through  those-  un- 
wholesome hours.  Did  she  carry  it  in  her  arms  while 
she  hovered,  like  a  ghost,  amid  the  awful  quiet  of  droop- 
ing willows  and  gleaming  tombstones?  Did  she  rock 
it  to  sleep  on  her  breast,  in  the  fearful  shadow  of  some 
vault,  with  a  row  of  coffins  for  company  '!  Or  was  she 
again  fleeing  over  deserted  fields,  crouching  in  lonely 
places,  fatigued,  distressed,  panting  under  tho  weight 
of  the  innocent  babe  who  slumbered  on  a  guilty  bosom, 
but  driven  still,  on,  on,  by  the  la*h  of  a  dreadful  secret  '.' 
I  made  wild  |.i. -tares  in  tin.-  sinking  embers,  a-  1  mnscd ; 
were  I  an  artist  I  would  reproduce  them  in  all  their 
lurid  light  and  somber  shadow  ;  but  I  am  not.  The 
close  air  of  the  place,  increased  in  drowsiness  by  the 
gas  from  the  open  doors  of  the  stove,  the  deep  silence, 
and  my  own  fatigue,  after  the  varying  journeys  and 
excitements  of  the  day,  at  last  overcame  me  :  1  remem- 
ber hearing  the  town  clock  Strike  eleven,  and  after  that 
J  HUM  have  slmnbcivd. 

As  I  slept,  I  continued  my  waking  dreams  ;  I  thought 
myself  still  gazing  in  the  smoldering  fire;  that  the 
sewing-girl  came  in  without  noise,  sat  down  before  it, 
and  silently  wept  over  the  child  who  lay  in  her  arms; 
that  Le-iiore  came  out  of  the  golden  embers,  with  \\  imrs 
tipped  with  ineffable  brightness,  locking  like  an  ang.-l, 
nud  seemed  to  comfort  the  mourner,  and  finally  tn,,k 
her  by  the  hand,  and  passing  me,  so  that  I  felt  the  mo- 
tion of  the  air  swept  by  her  wings  and  garmen1 
her  out  through  the  door,  which  closed  with  a  slight 
noise. 

At  the  noise  made  by  the  closing  door,  I  awoke.  As 
I  gathered  my  confused  senses  about  me,  I  was  not 


NO   SUCCESS.  113 

long  in  coming  to  the  conclusion  that  I  had,  indeed, 
heard  a  sound  and  felt  the  air  from  an  open  door — some 
one  had  been  in  the  room.  I  looked  at  my  watch  by  a 
match  which  I  struck,  for  the  fire  had  now  entirely  ex- 
pired. It  was  one  o'clock.  Vexed  beyond  words  that 
I  had  slumbered,  I  rushed  out  into  the  empty  passages, 
where,  standing  silent,  I  listened  for  any  footstep. 
There  was  not  the  echo  of  a  sound  abroad.  The  halls 
were  wrapped  in  darkness.  Quietly  and  swiftly  I  felt 
my  way  down  to  the  sti-eet ;  not  a  soul  to  be  seen  in 
any  direction.  Yet  1  felt  positive  that  Leesy  Sullivan, 
creeping  from  her  shelter,  had  returned  to  her  room  at 
that  midnight  hour,  had  found  me  there,  sleeping,  and 
had  fled. 

Soon  a  car,  which  now  ran  only  at  intervals  of  half 
an  hour,  came  along,  and  I  gave  up  my  watch  for  the 
night,  mortified  at  the  result. 

It  was  three  o'clock  when  I  reached  Mr.  Burton's 
door.  He  opened  it  before  I  could  ring  the  bell. 

"  No  success  ?  I  was  afraid  of  it.  You  see  I  have 
kept  up  for  you ;  and  now,  since  the  night  is  so  far 
spent,  if  you  are  not  too  worn-out,  I  wish  you  would 
come  with  me  to  a  house  not  very  far  from  here.  I  want 
to  show  you  how  some  of  the  fast  young  men  of  New 
York  spend  the  hours  in  which  they  ought  to  be  in 
bed." 

"  I  am  wide  awake,  and  full  of  curiosity ;  but  how 
did  you  find  your  little  daughter  ?" 

"  Drooping  a  little,  but  persisting  that  she  was  not 
ill  nor  tired,  and  delighted  with  the  flowers." 

"  Then  you  did  not  forget  the  bouquet  ?" 

"  No,  I  never  like  to  disappoint  Lenore." 

Locking  the  door  behind  us,  we  again  descended  to 
the  deserted  street. 


114  THE   DEAD  LETTER. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

THK   SPIDER   AND   THE   FLY. 

"Cora,  said  my  cicerone,  "we  are  already  very 
late." 

A  rapid  walk  of  a  few  minutes  brought  us  to  the 
entrance  of  a  handsome  house,  having  the  appearance 
of  a  private  residence,  and  standing  on  a  fashionable 
street 

"  Why,"  said  I,  inclined  to  draw  back,  as  lie  ascended 
the  steps,  "  you  surely  would  not  think  of  disturbing 
the  people  here  at  this  hour  of  the  night?  There  is 
not  a  light  to  be  seen,  even  in  the  chambers." 

Mr.  Burton's  low  laugh  made  me  blush  at  my  own 
"  greenness."  His  ring  at  the  bell  was  followed  by  a 
knock,  which  I  was  quick-witted  enough,  in  spite  of 
my  verdancy,  to  perceive  had  something  significant 
about  it.  The  door  immediately  swung  a  little  open, 
my  friend  said  a  few  words  which  had  the  eflect  to  un- 
close the  mysterious  portals  still  wider,  and  we  entered 
a  modest  hall,  which  a  single  gas-burner,  half-turned 
off,  dimly  illuminated.  The  man-servant  who  admitted 
us  was  sable  as  ebony,  muscular,  much  above  the  me- 
dium size,  drc^M-d  in  a  plain  livery,  and  with  manners 
M  polished  as  his  own  shining  skin — nn  African  leopard, 
barring  the  spots,  smooth  and  powerful. 

"Is  Bagley  still  here?"  asked  my  companion. 

"Yes,  sir.      In  de  library,  jus'  where  you  let"  him." 

"Very  well.  You  need  not  disturb  him.  I've 
brought  my  young  friend  in  to  introduce  him  to  the 
house,  in  view  of  further  acquaintance." 

The  ebony  man  smiled  respectfully,  bowing  for  us  to 
into  the  parlor.  I  thought  I  saw  in  that  quiet 


A   GAMBLING-HOUSE.  115 

smile  a  lurking  ray  of  satisfaction — a  gloating,  as  it 
were,  over  my  prospective  intimacy  at  this  respectable 
house.  He  had  probably  been  usher  to  the  maelstrom 
long  enough  to  know  that  those  whose  feet  were  once 
caught  in  the  slow,  delightful  waltz  of  the  circling 
waters  never  withdrew  them,  after  the  circle  grew  nar- 
row and  swift,  and  the  rush  of  the  whirlpool  sounded 
up  from  the  bottomless  pit. 

We  entered  a  suit  of  rooms  in  no  manner  differing 
from  the  parlors  of  a  private  house.  They  were  richly 
furnished  and  well  lighted,  close  inner  blinds,  hidden 
by  heavy  silk  curtains,  shutting  in  the  light  from  the 
observation  of  the  street.  There  were  three  rooms  in 
this  suit ;  the  two  first  were  now  deserted,  though  the 
odor  of  wine,  and  scented  hair  and  handkerchiefs, 
showed  that  they  had  been  recently  occupied.  In  these 
two  the  chandeliers  were  partially  obscured,  but  the 
third  room  was  still  brilliantly  illuminated.  We  walked 
toward  it.  Magnificent  curtains  of  amber  silk  depend- 
ed from  the  arch  which  separated  it  from  the  parlors. 
Only  one  of  these  curtains  was  now  drawn  back,  the 
others  trailing  on  the  carpet,  and  closing  the  apartment 
from  our  observation.  Mr.  Burton  placed  me  in  the 
shadow  of  the  curtains,  where  I  could  see — myself  un- 
seen. The  room  was  furnished  as  a  library,  two  of  its 
walls  being  covered  with  books  ;  I  particularly  noticed 
a  marble  bust  of  Shakspeare,  very  fine.  A  severe, 
yet  liberal,' taste  marked  the  choice  and  arrangement 
of  every  thing.  A  painting  of  Tasso  reading  his 
poems  to  the  Princess,  hung  between  the  two  back 
windows. 

It  was  a  well-arranged  library,  certainly  ;  yet  the  four 
occupants  were  engrossed  in  a  study  more  fascinating 
than  that  of  any  of  the  books  by  which  they  were  sur- 
rounded. If  Mephistophiles  could  have  stepped  from 
his  binding  of  blue  and  gold,  and  made  the  acquaintance 


116  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

of  the  company,  he  would  have  been  quite  charmed. 
Two  couples  sat  at  two  tables  playing  cards.  All  the 
other  visitors  to  the  establishment  liaJ  gone  away,  some 
of  them  to  theft  or  suicide,  perhaps,  save  those  four, 
who  still  lingered,  wrapped  up  in  the  dread  enchant- 
ment of  the  hour.  The  two  at  the  table  I  first  glanced 
at,  were  both  strangers  to  me ;  at  the  second,  I  could 
not  see  the  face  of  one  of  the  players,  whose  li.uk  was 
toward  me;  but  the  face  of  t IK-  other  was  directly  in 
front  of  me,  and  under  the  full  light  of  the  ehandelier. 
This  person  was  James  Argyll.  My  astonishment  was 
profound.  That  I  bad  never  fraterni/.cd  with  him,  I 
considered  partly  my  own  fault — there  are  person-  so 
naturally  antagonistic  as  to  make  real  friendship  be- 
tween them  impossible — and  I  had  often  blamed  myself 
for  our  mutual  coldness.  But,  with  all  my  dislike  of 
some  of  his  qualities — as,  for  instance,  his  indolent  ac- 
ceptance of  his  uncle's  bounty,  which,  in  the  eyei  ««t  a 
person  of  my  disposition,  took  away  hall  his  manliness 
— with  all  my  unfriendly  aversion  to  him,  I  had  never 
•ed  him  of  absolutely  bad  habits. 

I  had  to  look  twiee  to  a^nre  myself  of  his  identity. 
And  having  looked,  I  could  n-'t  lake  away  my  eyes 
from  the  strange  attraction  of  a  countenance  trans- 
formed by  the  excitement  of  the  gamingtable.  Hii 
dark  complexion  had  blanched  to  a  sallow  pal. 
cheeks  and  lips  were  of  the  same  color ;  his  nose  seemed 
to  have  sharpened,  and  was  drawn  in  about  th- 
with  a  pinched  look  ;  his  (\«l.:o\vs  \\,-re  very  slightly 
contracted,  but  fixed,  a-  it'  cut  in  marble,  while  under- 
neath them  the  lids  were  drawn  together,  HO  that  only 
a  line  of  the  cyo  was  visil,;.  line,  let  ting  out 

a  single  Steady  ray  from  the  lurid  world  within.  The. 
lids  appeared  as  if  the  eyeballs  had  shrunken  in  the 
intensity  of  their  gaze. 

Silently  the  cards  were  dealt  and  played.    It  was 


RIGHTEOUS   RAGE.  117 

evidently  the  closing  game,  upon  which  much  depended 
— how  much,  for  James,  I  could  only  guess  by  the  in- 
creasing pallor  and  absorption  of  his  countenance. 

"I  wish  I  could  see  his  opponent's  face,"  I  whispered 
to  my  companion. 

"  You  would  see  nothing  but  the  face  of  the  devil 
coolly  amusing  himself.  Bagley  never  gets  excited. 
He  has  ruined  a  dozen  young  men  already." 

^The  last  card  was  thrown  down ;  the  two  players 
arose  simultaneously. 

"  Well,  Bagley,"  said  James,  with  a  desperate  laugh, 
"  you  will  have  to  wait  for  the  money  until  I — " 

"  Marry  the  young  lady,"  said  the  other ;  "  that  is 
the  agreement,  I  believe ;  but  don't  consent  to  a  long 
engagement." 

"  I  shall  find  some  means  to  pay  these  last  tAvo  debts 
before  that  happy  consummation,  I  hope.  You  shall 
hear  from  me  within  a  month." 

"  We  will  make  a  little  memorandum  of  them,"  said 
his  opponent ;  and  as  they  went  together  to  a  writing- 
desk,  Mr.  Burton  drew  me  away. 

I  could  hardly  breathe  when  we  got  into  the  street, 
I  was  so  suffocated  with  rage  at  hearing  the  reference 
made  by  those  two  men,  under  that  unholy  roof,  to  the 
woman  so  revered  and  sacred  in  my  thoughts.  I  was 
certain  that  Miss  Argyll  was  the  young  lady  whose 
fortune  was  to  pay  these  "  debts  of  honor,"  contracted 
in  advance  upon  such  security.  If  his  strong  hand  had 
not  silently  withheld  me,  I  do  not  know  but  I  should 
have  made  a  scene,  which  Avould  have  been  as  unwise 
as  useless.  I  was  thankful,  afterward,  that  I  was  pre- 
vented, though  I  chafed  under  the  restraint  at  the  time. 
Neither  of  us  spoke  until  we  were  in  the  house  of  my 
host,  where  a  fire  in  the  library  awaited  us.  Before 
this  we  seated  ourselves,  neither  of  us  feeling  sleepy 
after  our  night's  adventures. 


118  THB   DEAD   LETTER. 

"How  did  you  know  that  Argyll  was  at  that  house? 
I  had  no  idea  that  he  blended  coming  to  the  city  to- 
day," I  said. 

••  He  had  no  intention  until  he  learned  of  your  sudden 
departure.  He  came  down  in  the  next  train,  to  see 
what  you  were  about.  He  is  uneasy  about  you,  -Air. 
Redficld,  didn't  you  know  it?  As  he  coukl  ^certain 
nothing  satisfactory  about  your  doings,  or  mine,  he  had 
nothing  better  on  his  hands,  this  evening,  than  to  look 
up  his  friend  Bagley." 

"  How  do  you  know  all  this  ?" 

The  detective  half  smiled,  his  piercing  eyes  fixed  re- 
flectively on  the  tire. 

"I  should  be  poorly  able  to  support  my  pretensions, 
if  I  could  not  keep  the  circle  of  my  acquaintance  under 
my  observation.  I  was  informed  of  hi>  :irri\  al  in  town, 
upon  my  return  from  Brooklyn,  and  have  known  of  his 
wheivaliiMits  since.  I  could  tell  you  what  he  had  for 
Bnpper,  if  it  would  interest  you." 

The  uneasy  feeling  which  I  had  several  times  expe- 
rienced in  Mr.  Burton's  society,  came  over  me  a^ain. 
I  spoke  a  little  quickly  : 

"I  wonder  if  you  have  your  secret  agents — spirits 
of  the  air,  or  clivtru-ity,  they  mi^ht  almost  seem  to 
be — hovering  always  on  my  steps." 

He  laughed,  hut  not  unpleasantly,  looking  me  through 
with  those  steel-blue  rays : 

"  Would  it  trouble  you  to  fancy  yourself  under  sur- 
veillance ?" 

"  I  never  liked  fetters,  of  any  kind.     I  yield  my  choice 
of  will   and  action  to  nobody.     However,  if  any 
finds  satisfaction  in  playing  the  part  of  my  shadow,  I 
don't  know  that  I  shall  suffer  any  restraint  upon  that 
account." 

"  I  don't  think  it  would  disturb  you  seriously,"  he 
•aid. 


A   QUESTION   UNANSWERED.  119 

"  No  one  likes  to  be  watched,  Mr.  Burton." 

"  We  are  all  watched  by  the  pure  and  penetrating 
eye  of  the  All-seeing  One,  and  if  we  are  not  fearful 
before  Him,  whom  need  we  shrink  from?" 

I  looked  up  to  see  whether  it  was  the  secret-police- 
agent  who  was  preaching  to  me,  or  whether  my  host, 
in  his  power  of  varying  the  outer  manifestations  of  his 
character,  had  not  dropped  the  mystic  star  for  the  robe 
of  the  minister ;  he  was  gazing  into  the  fire  with  a  sad, 
absorbed  expression,  as  if  he  saw  before  him  a  long 
procession  of  mortal  crimes,  walking  in  the  night  of 
earth,  but,  in  reality,  under  the  full  brightness  of  infi- 
nite day.  I  had  seen  him  before  in  these  solemn,  almost 
prophetic  moods,  brought  on  him  by  the  revelation  of 
some  new  sin,  which  seemed  always  in  him  to  awaken 
regret,  rather  than  the  exultation  of  a  detective  bent 
on  the  successful  results  of  his  mission.  So  soft,  so 
gentle  he  appeared  then,  I  inwardly  wondered  that  he 
had  the  sternness  to  inflict  disgrace  and  exposure  upon 
the  "respectable"  guilty — which  class  of  criminals  he 
was  almost  exclusively  employed  with — but  I  had  only 
to  reflect  upon  the  admirable  equipoise  of  his  character, 
to  realize  that  with  him  justice  was  what  he  loved  best. 
For  those  who  prowled  about  society  in  the  garb  of 
lambs  and  shepherd-dogs,  seeking  whom  they  might 
devour,  and  laying,  perhaps,  the  proofs  of  guilt  at  the 
doors  of  the  innocent,  he  had  no  mercy  of  the  "  let  us 
alone"  type.  A  little  time  we  were  silent ;  the  drop- 
ping of  an  ember  from  the  grate  startled  us. 

"  Why  do  you  think  that  James  watches  me  ?  What 
does  he  watch  me  for  ?" 

I  asked  this,  going  back  to  the  surprise  I  had  felt 
when  he  made  the  remark. 

"  You  will  know  soon  enough." 

It  was  useless  for  me  to  press  the  question,  since  he 
did  not  wish  to  be  explicit. 


120  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

"  I  did  not  know,"  I  continued,  "  I  never  dreamed, 
that  James  had  bad  associates  in  the  city.  I  know 
that  his  uncle  and  cousins  do  not  suspect  it.  It  pains 
me  more  than  I  can  express.  What  shall  I  do  ?  I  have 
no  influence  over  him.  He  dislikes  me,  and  would  take 
the  most  brotherly  remonstrance  as  an  insult." 

"  I  do  not  wish  you,  at  present,  to  hint  your  diso-v- 
ery  to  him.  As  for  your  not  suspecting  his  habits, 
those  habits  themselves  are  recent.  L doubt  if  hi-  ha«l 
ever  ventured  a  dollar  on  cards  three  months  :!•_:«>.  He 
had  some  gay,  even  dissolute  companions  in  the  city, 
of  whom  the  worst  and  most  dangerous  was  Bagley. 
But  he  had  not  joined  them  in  their  worst  c.xcesooa 
he-  was  only  idle  and  fond  of  pleasure — a  moth  flutter- 
ing around  the  flames.  Now  he  has  scorched  his  wimrs. 
He  has  not  spent  more  than  three-  or  four  nights  a-,  he 
spent  this  ;  and  the  only  money  he  has  lost  has  been  to 
the  person  you  saw  him  with  to-ni^ht.  Barley  is  one 
of  the  vampires  who  fatten  on  the  characters  and  ]< 
of  young  men  like  James  Argyll." 

"Then  on^ht  we  not  to  make  some  earnest  effort  to 
save  him  before  it  is  too  late?  Oh,  Mr.  Burton,  you 
who  arc  wise  and  cxperieneed — tell  me  what  to  do." 

44  Why  do  you  feel  so  much  interest  in  him?  You 
do  not  like  him." 

44 1  could  not  see  the  merest  stranger  go  down  toward 
destruction  without  stretching  forth  my  hand.  There 
is  no  great  friendship  between  ns,  it  is  true  ;  but  James 
is  nearly  connected  with  the  happiness  and  reputation 
of  the  family  I  honor  most  on  earth.  For  its  sake,  I 
would  make  the  utmost  endeavor." 

"For  the  interests  of  justice,  then,  it  is  well  that.  I 
am  not  related  to  the  Argylls  by  the  personal  ties  which 
affect  you.  I  will  tell  you  one  thing — James  does  not 
gamble  so  much  from  weakness  of  will  to  resist  tempt- 
ation, as  he  does  to  forget,  for  a  time,  under  the 


ALWAYS   KEEPING   SOMETHING  BACK.  121 

influence  of  the  fascinating  excitement,  an  anxiety  which 
he  carries  about  with  him." 

"  You're  a  close  observer,  Mr.  Burton.  James  has, 
indeed,  been  deeply  troubled  lately.  I  have  noticed 
the  change  in  him — in  his  appetite,  complexion,  manners, 
in  a  thousand  trifles — a  change  which  grows  upon  him 
daily.  He  is  gnawed  upon  by  secret  doubts — now 
raised  by  hopes,  now  depressed  by  fears,  until  he  is  fit- 
ful and  uncertain  as  a  light  carried  in  an  autumn  wind. 
But  I  can  tell  you  that  he  is  all  wrong  in  indulging  this 
vain  hope,  which  creates  the  doubt.  I  know  what  it 
is,  and  how  utterly  without  foundation.  It  is  weakness, 
wickedness  in  him  to  allow  a  passion  which  ought  only 
to  ennoble  him  and  teach  him  self-control,  to  chase  him 
to  such  ruin  as  I  saw  to-night." 

"  That  is  your  way  of  viewing  the  matter,  Mr.  Red- 
field.  We  all  see  things  according  to  the  color  of  the 
spectacles  we  happen  to  wear.  Then  you  think  it  is  a 
growing  certainty  that  Miss  Argyll,  even  under  her 
present  relief  from  past  vows,  will  never  favor  his  suit, 
nor  that  of  any  man,  which  is  driving  her  cousin  to 
these  reckless  habits  ?" 

I  was  half-offended  with  him  for  mentioning  her  name 
in  that  manner ;  but  I  knew  that  mine  was  an  extreme, 
if  not  a  morbid  sensitiveness,  where  she  was  concerned, 
and  I  swallowed  my  resentment,  answering, 

"  I  fear  it  is." 

"  That  may  explain  his  disquiet  to  you — so  be  it." 

Still  Mr.  Burton  was  keeping  something  back  from 
me — always  keeping  something  back.  I  did  not  feel 
at  all  sleepy.  I  was  full  of  eager  thought.  I  reviewed, 
with  a  lightning  glance,  all  that  he  had  ever  said — all 
James  had  recently  done  or  said — and,  I  swear,  had  it 
not  been  for  the  almost  affectionate  kindness  of  his  gen- 
eral manner  to  me,  and  my  belief  in  his  candor,  which 
•would  not  allow  him  to  play  the  part  of  a  friend  while 
6 


122  THE   DEAD   LETTEll. 

acting  the  part  of  an  enemy,  I  should  have  felt  th.it 
Mr.  Burton  suspected  me  of  that  appalling  crime  which 
I  was  so  busily  seeking  to  fix  upon  the  head  of  a  frail, 
frightened  woman !  Again  the  idea,  and  not  for  the 
first  time,  crept  through  my  veins,  chilling  me  from 
head  to  foot.  I  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes.  If  he  had 
such  a  thought,  I  would  pluck  it  out  from  behind  that 
curtain  of  deception,  and  make  him  acknowledge  it. 
If  he  had  such  a  thought,  James  had  introduced  it  to 
his  mind.  I  knew  that  James  had  had  some  inten  ie\vs 
with  him,  of  which  I  was  only  eo^ni/.ant  by  casual  ob- 
servations dropped  by  my  host.  How  many  more  con- 
claves they  may  have  held,  was  left  to  my  imagination 
to  conjecture.  What  was  this  man  before  me  playing 
this  double  part  for? — a  friend  to  each,  but  m-\er  t<, 
both  together.  The  reader  may  smile,  and  answer  that 
it  is  the  very  calling  and  existence  of  a  detective  to 
play  a  double  part;  and  that  I  ought  not  to  be  cha- 
grined to  find  him  exercising  his  fine  talents  upon  me. 
Perhaps  James  also  had  reason  to  fancy  himself  this 
man's  confidant  and  friend,  who  was  pla\in_r  us,  "no 
against  the  other,  for  purposes  of  his  own.  It  was  the 
thought  that  Mr.  Burton,  before  whom  more  than  any 
other  person  in  this  world,  except  my  mother,  I  had 
been  wiled  to  lay  open  my  soul,  could  suspect  mo  of 
any  hidden  part  in  that  dark  tragedy,  which  chilled  me 
to  the  marrow. 

Hut  no! — it  was  impossible!  I  saw  it  now  in  the 
frank  and  smiling  eyes  which  met  my  searching  and 
lengthy  gaze. 

44 There!"  he  cried,  gayly,  "  there  is  a  ray  of  actual 
sunrise.  The  fire  is  out ;  the  room  is  chilly — the  morn- 
ing has  come  upon  us.  We  have  sat  out  the  ni^ht, 
I;  u-d  !  Let  me  show  you  to  your  room;  we  will 
not  breakfast  until  nine  o'clock,  and  you  can  catch  a 
couple  of  hours'  repose  in  the  mean  time."  He  took 


SLEEPLESS.  123 

up  a  lamp,  and  we  ascended  the  stairs.  "  Here  is  your 
chamber.  Now,  remember,  I  bid  you  sleep,  and  let 
that  clock  in  your  brain  run  down.  It  is  bad  for  the 
young  to  think  too  deeply.  Good morning." 

He  passed  on,  as  I  closed  the  door  of  my  chamber. 
His  tone  had  been  that  of  an  elder  friend,  speaking  to 
a  young  man  whom  he  loved ;  I  had  wronged  hinv 
by  that  unpleasant  idea  which  had  shivered  through 
me. 

Closed  shutters  and  thick  curtains  kept  out  the  broad- 
ening light  of  dawn  ;  yet  I  found  it  difficult  to  compose 
myself  to  sleep.  That  haunting  shadow  which  had  flit- 
ted from  Henry's  grave  as  I  approached  it  yesterday — 
the  dream  which  I  had  in  the  little  chamber,  awaken- 
ing to  the  reality  of  the  sewing-girl's  escape — I  could 
not  banish  these  any  more  than  I  could  the  discovery 
made  in  that  house  of  sin,  where  the  bloated  spider  of 
Play  weaves  his  glittering  net,  and  sits  on  the  watch 
for  the  gay  and  brilliant  victims  who  flutter  into  its 
meshes. 

One  feeling  I  had,  connected  with  that  discovery, 
•which  I  had  not  betrayed  to  Mr.  Burton — which  I 
would  not  fairly  acknowledge  to  my  own  soul — which 
I  quarreled  with — drove  out — but  which  persisted  in 
returning  to  me  now,  banishing  slumber  from  my  eye- 
lids. When  I  had  stood  behind  those  silken  curtains, 
and  beheld  James  Argyll  losing  money  in  play,  I  had 
experienced  a  sensation  of  relief — I  might  say  of  abso- 
lute gladness — a  sensation  entirely  apart  from  my  sor- 
row at  finding  him  in  such  society,  with  such  habits. 
Why  ?  Ah,  do  not  ask  me ;  I  can  not  tell  you  yet. 
Do  not  wrong  me  by  saying  that  it  was  triumph  over 
the  fall  of  my  rival  in  Mr.  Argyll's  affections,  in  busi- 
ness, possibly,  and  in  the  regards  of  those  two  noble 
girls  whose  opinions  we  both  prized  so  highly.  Only 
do  not  accuse  me  of  this  most  apparent  reason  for  my 


124  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

gladness,  and  I  will  abide  my  time  in  your  judgment. 
But  no !  I  will  confess  this  nuu-h  to-night  myself. 

It'  this  stealthy  and  living  creature  whom  we  two 
men  were  hunting  from  one  hiding-place  to  another, 
whose  wild  face  had  been  seen  pressing  toward  the  li- 
brary window  on  that  night  of  nights,  and  whose  hand- 
kerchief the  very  thorns  of  the  roses  had  conspired  to 
steal  from  her,  and  hold  as  a  witness  against  her — if 
this  doubtful,  eluding  ereatuiv.  Hitting  darkly  in  the 
shadows  of  this  tragedy,  had  not  abstracted  that  money 
from  Mr.  Argyll's  desk,  I  had  dared  to  guess  who 
might  have  taken  it.  Simply  and  solely — not  because  I 
did  not  like  him — but  because,  logo  back  to-  the  1'Viday 
before  that  fatal  Saturday,  I  had  been  late  in  the  par- 
lors. The  girls  were  tinging  and  playing  at  the  piano  ; 
I  left  turning  the  music  for  them  to  go  for  a  volume  in 
the  library  which  I  desired  to  carry  off  with  me  to 
read  in  my  room  that  night;  I  opened  the  door  sud- 
denly, and  startled  James,  who  was  leaning  over  that 
desk. 

"  Have  you  seen  my  opera-glass?"  said  he.  "I  left 
it  i m  the  desk  here." 

I  answered  him  that  1  had  not  M-CII  it,  got  my  book, 
and  returned  to  the  music,  thinking  no  more  of  that 
trilling  uccurrene« — which  I  never  more  should  have 
recalled  had  it  not  been  for  a  peculiar  expression  in 
James'  face,  which  I  \\as  afterward  li.nvd  i,.  remember 
against  my  will.  Yet  so  little  did  I  \\  Mi  t<>  wrong 
him,  even  in  my  secret  thoughts,  that  when  the  iinesti- 
gations  were  taking  place,  I  was  convince,!,  with  all 
the  others,  that  the  unlawful  visitor  of  the  garden  had, 
in  some  mannorr  possessed  herself  of  the  money.  It 
only  came  back  to  me  as  I  watched  James  this  night, 
in  the  gambling  saloon,  that,  if  he  ever  had  been  tempt- 
ed to  rob  from  his  uncle  more  than  the  unfailing  gener- 
osity of  that  good  gentleman  allowed  him,  I  was  glad 


SOLICITUDE.  125 

that  it  was  play  which  had  tempted  him  to  the  wrong- 
ful act.  This  was  the  shadowy  nature  of  my  pleasure. 
Who  has  complete  mastery  of  his  thoughts  ?  Who 
does  not  sometimes  find  them  evil,  unwarrantable,  un- 
comfortable, and  to  be  ashamed  of? 

From  the  perplexity  of  all  these  things  I  sunk  into  a 
slight  slumber,  from  which  I  was  almost  immediately 
aroused  by  the  tinkling  of  the  breakfast-bell.  I  arose, 
dressed,  and,  upon  descending  to  the  library,  was  met 
by  a  servant,  who  ushered  me  at  once  into  a  cheer- 
ful apartment,  where  my  host  sat  by  the  window, 
reading  the  morning  paper,  and  where  the  table  only 
waited  my  appearance  to  be  graced  by  a  -well-ordered 
meal. 

"  Lenore  usually  presides  over  the  tea-urn,"  said  Mr. 
Burton,  as  we  sat  down.  "  We  have  a  little  affair 
which  answers  for  two,  and  which  is  adapted  to  the 
strength  of  her  little  hands.  It  seems  pleasantest  so ; 
and  we  both  like  it — but  she  has  not  arisen  this  morn- 
ing." 

"  I  hope  she  is  not  more  unwell  than  usual,"  I  said, 
with  real  solicitude. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  she  was  not  at  all  benefited 
by  what  occurred  yesterday.  She  is  nervous  and  ex- 
hausted ;  I  have  been  up  to  see  her.  I  know  that  when 
the  doctor  comes  to-day,  he  will  guess  what  I  have 
been  about,  and  blame  me.  I  mean  it  shall  be  the  last 
time  in  which  I  experiment  upon  her." 

"  I  shall  regret  it,  if  she  is  really  injured  by  it,  de- 
spite my  intense  desire  to  learn  what  she  revealed.  Per- 
haps it  was  from  our  selfishness  in  making  use  of  this 
exquisite  instrument  for  purposes  so  earthly  that  we  are 
punished  by  the  fruitlessness  of  the  results." 

Mr.  Burton  laughed. 

••"  Perhaps.  Punishment,  however,  seldom  appears 
fitly  meted  out,  this  side  the  Stygian  river.  My  Lenore 


126  THB   DKJLD  LETTEE. 

will  be  better  this  afternoon ;  and  I  have  strong  hopes 
that,  with  the  light  now  before  us,  we  shall  secure 
our  prize.  If  that  woman  escapes  me  now,  I  shall 
set  her  down  as  a  lunatic — only  an  insane  person 
could  have  the  consummate  cunning  to  thwart  me  so 
long." 

"  There  never  was  one  less  insane,"  I  said.  "  The 
impression  which  she  made  upon  me  was  that  of  one  in 
whom  the  emotions  and  intellect  were  both  powerful. 
Her  will  and  cunning  are  well-nigh  a  match  for  yours. 
You  will  have  to  look  sharp." 

"  It  is  easier  to  pursue  than  to  evade  pursuit.  She 
has  much  the  most  difficult  strategy  to  conceive  and 
execute.  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Rcdfield,  I'm  bound  to  see 
that  woman.  I  shall  be  so  pi<juc<l  at  my  failure,  as  to 
go  into  a  decline,  if  I'm  di.-appointed.''  He  M-erned 
two-thirds  in  earnest,  through  his  jocular  assertion. 

We.  did  not  linger  IOIILJ  over  the  breakfast,  being 
anxious  to  get  back  to  Brooklyn.  After  we  had  with- 
drawn from  the  table,  he  gave  me  the  paper  to  look 
over,  while  he  ran  up  a  moment  to  say  something  to 
his'  daughter.  While  he  was  absent,  the  door-bell  run'_r, 
and  the  servant  showed  a  gentleman  into  the  room 
where  I  was. 

"  Well,  really,"  were  the  first  words  I  heard,  "  has 
Mr.  Burton  taken  you  for  an  apprentice,  and  do  you 
lodge  with  your  employer  ?" 

It  was  James — as  usual,  when  addressing  me,  with 
the  gay  umile  covering  the  sneer.    He  did  not  even  ex- 
tend his  hand,  but  stood  looking  at  me  a  moment,  with 
a  sort  of  defiant  menace,  which    ended  with    an  i;< 
glance  about  the   place.      If  he  li;i<l  been  e.msei..-, 
my  secret  vi.-it  to  his  haunts,  he  would  have  \\orn  M.nie- 
thing  such  an  expression  ;  I  construed   it  that  hi- 
less  conscience  made  him  suspicious  of  his  frien«l>. 

"  I  came  down,  unexpectedly,  yesterday  morning,  at 


NO  PEACE   BETWEEN  THESE  TWO.  127 

his  i-equest.    We  got  some  trace  of  Leesy  Sullivan ; 
and  I  shall  stay  until  we  do  something  about  it." 

"  Indeed  !" — he  seemed  relieved,  putting  off  his  ugly 
look  and  condescending  to  be  gentlemanly  again.  "  Have 
you  found  out  where  the  wretched  creature  has  hidden 
herself?  Upon  my  word,  I  think  if  Eleanor  knew  the 
case  in  all  its  bearings,  it  might  be  useful  in  keeping 
her  from  quite  killing  herself  of  grief." 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  be  augry ;  I  turned  upon  him 
with  a  flushed  face  :  ? 

"  For  God's  sake,  don't  slander  the  dead,  even  by 
imputation,  however  slight.  Whoever  put  Henry  where 
he  lies  now,  and  for  what  purpose,  this  much  I  believe 
— that  no  injustice  nor  sin  of  his  own  brought  that  high 
heart  low.  And  the  villain,  I  say  the  villain,  who  could  . 
breathe  such  a  whisper  in  Eleanor's  ear  would  be  base 
enough  to — to — " 

"  Speak  out,"  smiled  James,  holding  me  with  his 
softly  glittering  gaze. 

"  I  will  say  no  more,"  I  ended,  abruptly,  as  I  heard 
Mr.  Burton's  steps  approaching.  It  was  evident  to  me 
that  there  was  to  be  no  peace  between  us  two. 

I  watched  my  host  while  he  greeted  the  new  arrival ; 
I  wished  to  satisfy  myself  if  there  was  a  difference  in 
his  manner  of  treating  us  which  would  justify  my  belief 
that  Mr.  Burton  was  not  playing  a  part  with  me.  He 
was  courteous,  affable,  every  thing  that  was  desirable 
or  to  be  expected  in  a  gentleman  receiving  a  friendly 
acquaintance — that  was  all ;  again  I  assured  myself 
that  it  was  only  toward  me  that  he  displayed  real  liking 
and  affection.  But  this  he  did  not  now  display.  His 
face  had  on  its  mask — that  conventional  smile  and 
polish,  that  air  of  polite  interest,  than  which  nothing 
is  more  impenetrable.  It  was  because,  in  our  intercourse 
alone  together,  Mr.  Burton  laid  this  mask  aside,  that 
I  flattered  myself  I  was  his  friend  and  confidant. 


128  THE   DKAD  LETTER. 

"  Richard  got  the  start  of  me,"  observed  James,  after 
the  compliments  of  the  day  were  over  ;  "  I  had  not  the 
least  idea  that  he,  was  in  to\vn.  I  came  do\vn  yesterday 
to  buy  myself  an  overcoat — important  bn>ine>s  wasn't 
it  ? — and  stayed  over  to  the  opera,  last  ni^lii  bein-_:  tin- 
opening  of  the  new  season.  Did  cither  ofyou  attend  '; 
I  did  not  see  you,  if  then-.  He  tells  me  that  ho 
Jell  in  the  early  morning  train,  before  the  one  I  took. 
Have  you  any  information  of  importance,  .Mr.  Bur- 
ton ?" 

"  We  have  seen  Miss  Sullivan." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  And  have  you  really  made  up  your 
mind  that  the  poor  thing  is  guilty  ?  If  so,  I  hope  you 
will  not  fail  to  have  her  arrested.  I  should  like,  very 
much  indeed,  to  have  the  all'air  sifted  to  the  <i 

*  Y.  I,  I  suppose  so.  It  is  quite  natural  that  you 
should  take  an  interest  in  having  it  sifted,  as  yon  -ay. 
I  assure  yon  that  if  I  ha\  e  reason  enough  to  wan-ant  an 
indictment,  I  shall  have  one  gotten  out.  In  the  mean 
time  we  mn-t  lie  cautious — the  intercuts  involved  arc 
too  serious  to  be  played  with." 

"  Certainly,  they  arc,  indeed.  And  mile**  that  young 
•woman  i«  really  the  dreadful  liein^'  we  l.clie\e  her,  we 
ought  not  to  ruin  her  by  open  accusation.  Still,  I  mu-t 
say  she  acts  extremely  like  a  guilty  person." 

"She  does,  Mr.  Ar-yll  ;  I  sec  but  one  explanation 
of  her  conduct -she  is  )M-i  -elf  j><irl i'-<j>*  f  -he 

knows  wh< 

"Quite  likely.      Indc.  d.  u.-.  an  not  well  think  other- 
Did  \oii  say  \ou  had  actually  seen  the  «,'i;-l.  Mr. 
Burto: 

"We  sav  :  day— thai  i.-ld  did." 

inquire  the  result  ?   or  am  I  imt  Mipp.'-ed  to 

be  sufficiently   interested  in  the   ca>e  to  ha\e  any   ri-ht 

to  ask  questions?     If  so,  I  be<:  you,  don't  trouble  yoiir- 

•elves.    There  are  doubtless  others   who  km-  dcc^r 


BUSINESS.  129 

and  different  reasons  from  mine,  for  being  conspicuous 
in  the  matter."  As  James  said  this,  he  looked  directly 
at  me.  "  You  know,  Mr.  Burton,  I  have  intimated  as 
much  before  ;  and,  if  I  am  sometimes  imprudent  in  my 
speech,  you  must  know  how  hard  it  is  for  me  to  control 
myself  always." 

I  was  conscious  that  I  grew  pale,  as  Mr.  Burton 
glanced  swiftly  at  me,  I  felt  so  certain  that  James 
meant  something  personal,  yet  so  uncertain  how  to  ac- 
cuse him  of  it,  or  to  compel  him  to  explain  himself, 
when  he  would  probably  deny  there  was  any  thing  to 
explain. 

"  I  don't  think  there's  any  one  has  a  deeper  interest 
in  the  matter  than  you,  Mr.  Argyll,"  said  Mr.  Burton, 
with  a  kind  of  smooth  distinctness  of  tone  which  might 
seem  to  be  impressive,  or  mean  nothing,  as  the  listener 
chose  to  understand  it.  "  About  seeing  the  girl,  Red- 
field  has  not  half  so  much  to  tell  as  I  wish  he  had.  lu 
fact,  he  let  her  slip  through  his  fingers." 

A  dry  laugh  was  James'  comment  upon  this  avowal. 
Mr.  Burton  saw  that  we  were  inwardly  chafing,  ready, 
as  it  were,  to  spring  upon  each  other ;  he  took  up  his 
hat  and  gloves. 

"  Come,  gentlemen,  we  have  business  on  hand  of  too 
much  importance  to  permit  of  ceremony.  Mr.  Argyll, 
I  must  excuse  myself.  But  if  you'll  join  us,  we  shall 
be  glad  of  your  aid  and  company.  We  are  going  over 
to  Brooklyn,  to  seek  for  another  glimpse  of  Leesy  Sul- 
livan." 

James  slightly  started  as  Brooklyn  was  mentioned. 
He  had  no  reason  to  suppose  that  any  thing  but  courtesy 
prompted  the  invitation  he  received ;  yet  he  did  not 
hesitate  to  accept  it.  Whether  from  mere  curiosity,  or 
jealousy  at  being  kept  out  of  the  detective's  full  con- 
fidence, or  a  desire  to  pry  into  my  actions  and  motives, 
or  a  praiseworthy  interest — whatever  it  was  prompted 
6* 


IbO  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

him,  he  kept  with  ns  all  day,  expressing  regret  ns  deep 
tis  our  own  when  another  night  came  without  any  re- 
sults. Being  belated,  we  took  our  supper  in  a  saloon, 
as  we  had  done  uur  dinner.  1  could  not  hut  notice 
that  Mr.  Burton  did  not  invite  James  to  the  hou-f  to 
spend  the  night,  nor  converse  with  him  at  all  ahout 
hi>  daughter  or  his  personal  alfairs. 

Tiie  next  morning  .lames  returned  home:  but  i  re- 
niained  in  tin-  city  several  days,  all  this  time  the  guc^t 
of  Mr.  liurtoti,  and  boOOBkiog  more  attached  to  him 
and  his  beautiful  child.  Alter  the  fuM  day,  I. more 
recovered  pretty  rapidly  from  the  ill  etVcets  of  the 
tranee;  I  was,  a-  the  l.idies  say,  "perfectly  charmed" 
with  her.  A  gayer,  inure  airy  little  sprite  never  ex- 
isted than  she.  when  her  health  permitted  her  natural 
spirit  t<>  display  itself.  Her  grace  and  playfulness  W4N 
befitting  her  age — childish  in  an  eminent  decree,  \«t 
poetized,  as  it  were,  by  an  ethereal  spiritualitv,  which 
was  all  her  own.  To  hear  her  SIIILT  would  he  to  \vonder 
how  such  a  depth  and  hi«_rht  and  hreadth,  such  an  in- 
iinity  of  inch-dy,  could  lie  poured  from  so  yoini'_r  and 
Blender  a  throat — as  I  had  often  wondered,  \\  hen  ^a/in^ 
at  the  swelling  breast  of  some  little  triumphant  l.ird, 
when-  was  hidden  ( he  mechanism  for  all  that  marvelous 
ofum-ic. 

It  is  said  that  children  know  who  .-ire  their  true 
liii-nd*.  I  do  not  think  that  "Hitting.  faiiV'  \< 
doubted  for  an  instant  that  I  u:i-  hers.  \\",.  ;ickno\\  1- 
cdged  a  mutual  attraction,  which  it  seemed  to  <;i\e  her 
fatlier  pleasure  to  observe.  She  was,  to  both  of  u<,  a 
delight  and  a  rest,  to  which  we  looked  forward  after 
tin-  vexations  and  di>.ipp«>intnicnls  of  the  day— vexa- 
tions and  di-appointmi'iiN  which  incre.i-ed  ii|io;. 
for  every  night  we  had  the  dissatisfied. MI  of  finding 
Rome  slender  thread  of  probability,  whirh  we  had  in- 
dustriously unraveled  and  follow.,],  .iiher  abruptly 


FALSE    CLUES.  181 

broken  off,  leaving  us  standing,  perplexed  and  foolish, 
or  else  leading  to  persons  and  purposes  most  irrelevant. 
I  should  dislike  to  say  how  many 'pale,  dark-eyed  young 
women,  with  pretty  babies,  made  our  unexpected  ac- 
quaintance duringthe  following  week — an  acquaintance 
as  brief  as  it  was  unsolicited  on  their  part. 


132  THE    DEAD    LETTER. 


CHAPTER   X. 
"THE  ANNIVBESAEY. 

I  IIAVE  said  that  I  expected  Mr.  Argyll  to  offer  mo  ;\ 
partnership,  now  that  I  was  prepared  to  lu^in  my  le^al 
career.  In  this  I  was  not  presumptuous,  inasmuch  as 
he  had  frequently  and  plainly  hinted  his  intention. 
Such  an  arrangement  would  be  a  desirable  one  for  me  ; 
I  appreciated  its  many  advantages ;  at  the  same  time, 
I  expected,  by  taking  all  the  hanl  work  upon  my  self, 
and  by  the  constant  devotion  of  such  talent  as  I  had  to 
the  interests  of  the  linn,  to  repay,  as  far  as  possible, 
my  obligations  to  the  senior  member. 

When  I  returned  from  New  York.  I  a]>|u -ared  in  court 
with  a  case  which  had  chanced  to  be  intrusted  to  me, 
perhaps  from  the  inability  of  my  rlicnt  to  employ  an 
older  and  more  expensive  lawyer.  I  did  \\ell  with  it, 
and  was  complimented  by  several  of  Mr.  Argyll's  fra- 
ternity upon  my  success  in  handling  the  case.  Much 
to  my  surprise  and  mortification,  Mr.  Argyll's  congrat- 
ulations were  in  constrained  and  studied  terms.  He 
had  appeared  to  be  more  formal,  less  open  in  his  manner 
of  treating  me,  ever  since  my  last  visit  to  the  city.  At 
first  I  thought  it  my  fancy,  or  caused  by  s«.me  tem- 
porary ill-health,  or  mental  trouble,  under  which  he 
might  be  laboring.  Day  by  day  the  impression  deep- 
ened upon  me  that  his  feelings  toward  me  were  not 
what  they  had  been.  The  plainest  proof  I  had  of  this 
was,  that  no  offer  of  partnership  was  made.  I  was 
placed  in  a  disagreeable  Htuatic.n  for  one  of  my  p'-oud 
temperament.  My  studio  completed  to  the  point  where 
admission  to  practice  had  been  granted,  I  had  nothing 
to  do  but  continue  in  his  office,  reading,  reading  away 


PRESCIENCE.  133 

— not  but  that  my  time  was  most  usefully  employed 
thus,  and  not  that  I  was  in  any  great  hurry  to  go  into 
business,  though  my  income  was  narrow  enough,  and  I 
knew  that  my  mother  had  pinched  her  domestic  ar- 
rangements to  afford  me  that — but  I  began  to  feel  like 
an  intruder.  My  ostensible  use  of  his  books,  office, 
and  instructions  was  at  an  end ;  I  began  to  feel  like  a 
hanger-on.  Yet  I  could  not  go  away,  or  offer  to  asso- 
ciate myself  with  others,  hastily.  I  felt  that  he  ought 
either  to  put  in  execution  his  implied  promise,  or  to  in- 
form me  that  he  had  changed  his  plans,  and  I  was  free 
to  try  elsewhere. 

Can  any  invalid  tell  me  why  he  feels  a  prescience  of 
the  storm  in  his  aching  bones  and  tingling  nerves  while 
the  sun  still  shines  in  a  cloudless  sky,  and  not  one  hint 
on  the  outward  face  of  nature  tells  of  a  change  in  the 
weather  ?  Neither  can  I  explain  the  subtle  influences 
which  affected  me,  depressing  me  so  deeply,  and  making 
me  sensible  of  a  change  in  that  atmosphere  of  home 
which  had  brooded  for  me  over  the  Argyll  mansion.  I 
had  felt  this  first  in  the  more  business  air  of  the  office ; 
gradually,  it  seemed  to  me  to  be  creeping  over  the 
household.  Mary,  that  sweet  child  of  impulse,  too 
young  to  assume  much  dignity,  and  too  truthful  to  dis- 
guise her  innocent  face  in  falsehood,  who  had  clung  to 
me  in  this  affliction  as  a  sister  clings  to  an  elder  brother, 
awakening  all  my  tenderest  instincts  of  protection  and 
indulgence — this  fair  girl,  doubly  dear  to  me  as  the  sis- 
ter of  that  other  woman  whom  I  adored,  began  to  put 
on  an  air  of  reserve  toward  me.  She  was  kind  and 
gentle,  but  she  no  longer  ran  to  me  with  all  those  pretty 
demands  and  complaints,  those  trifling  confidences, 
so  sweet  because  an  evidence  of  trust  and  affection  ; 
sometimes  I  caught  her  eyes  fixed  upon  me  in  a  sad,  won- 
dering way,  which  puzzled  and  disconcerted  me  ;  when 
I  caught  her  glance,  she  would  turn  quickly,  and  blush. 


184  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

I  could  not  help  believing,  although  I  had  no  proof 
of  it,  that  .James  wa>  covertly  working  to  produce  an 
impnsnon  Bgftinst  me  in  the  family.  His  manner  to- 
ward me  had  never  been  so  friendly  ;  when  we  were 
alone  together  lie  grew  quite  confidential,  sometimes 
descending  to  small  llatteries,  and  almost  entirely  neg- 
lecting the  use  of  those  little  nettles  of  satire  with 
which  he  once  delighted  in  stinging  me  whciic\cr  any 
one  whom  I  esteemed  was  present.  I  could  not  pick  a 
quarrel  with  him,  had  I  desired  it.  Yet  I  could  nut  rid 
myself  of  the  consciousness  that  he  was  undermining 
my  footing  in  the  house  of  those  friends  I  loved  best. 
In  what  manner,  it  was  difficult  for  me  to  conjecture. 
If  he  slandered  my  habits  or  associations,  nothing  could 
be  easier  than  for  .Mr.  Argyll  to  quietly  ascertain,  by 
inquiries  unknown  to  myself,  the  truth  of  his  state- 
ments ;  JIM!,-,,  to  me  would  require  that  he  should  take 
that  trouble  before  he  cast  off,  as  unworthy  his  further 
kindness,  the  son  of  his  dead  friend.  I  could  think  of 
but  one  matter  which  hi- could  use  to  my  prejudice; 
and  in  that  my  c,.n-.ci,-n,-.-  arrived  me  loudly  enough. 
I  I  to  myself  that  he  had  told  them  of  my  love  for 
KleaiHiu.  He  had  torn  that  delicate  and  sacred 
from  my  heart,  where  it  lay  under  the  pitying  light  of 
God's  eye  alone — discovered  it  through  hate  and  jeal- 
ousy, which  are  next  to  lo\e  in  the  keenness  of  their 
J  erccptiolis — and  exposed  it  to  iho-e  from  whom  I  had 
ino-t  shrinkingly  hidden  it.  K\en  then,  \\liy  should 
they  Maine  me,  or  treat  me  coldly,  for  what  I  could 
not  help,  and  for  which  I  alone  must  sutler  ?  Certainly 
not  for  my  presumption,  since  I  had  not  presumed.  ()no 
.till  idea  preyed  upon  me.  It  \\as,  that,  in  order 
to  rid  himself  of  me  forever,  to  drive  me  out  from  the 
friendsliipof  those  whom  he  wanted  to  himself,  for  hi* 
own  8el6sh  aim-.  is  representing  to  them  not 

only  that  I  loved  Eleanor,   but  that  I  was  looking 


A   GLOOMY    DAT.  135 

fonvard  to  the  future  with  hopes  which  mocked  her  pres- 
ent desolation. 

I  can  not  describe  the  pain  and  humiliation  this  idea 
gave  me.  It*  I  could  have  discovered  it,  or  in  any  way 
denied  it,  I  should  not  have  felt  so  hurt  and  helpless. 
As  it  was,  I  felt  that  my  honor  was  being  stabbed  in 
the  dark,  without  a  chance  to  defend  itself — some  se- 
cret enemy  was  wounding  it,  as  some  base  assassin  had 
planted  that  deadly  wound  in  the  heart  of  Henry  More- 
land. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  Christmas  holidays  were  ap- 
proaching. It  was  a  season  of  gloom  and  mourning, 
mocked  by  the  merry  preparations  of  happier  people. 
On  the  twenty-third  day  of  December  came  Eleanor's 
nineteenth  birthday.  It  was  to  have  been  her  wedding- 
day.  A  glorious  winter  morning  dawned ;  the  sun 
shone  in  a  sapphire  sky ;  it  seemed  as  if  every  plant  iu 
the  conservatory  put  forth  double  bloom — the  japonicas, 
the  white  roses,  were  incomparable.  I  could  not  help 
but  linger  about  the  house.  Eleanor  kept  herself  in 
her  room.  If  every  word  which  refers  to  her  were 
written  in  tears,  it  could  not  express  the  feelings  with 
which  we  all  were  moved  with  the  thought  of  her  be- 
reavement. We  moved  about  like  people  in  dreams, 
silent  and  abstracted.  The  old  housekeeper,  when  I 
met  her  on  the  stairsv  was  wiping  her  eyes  with  tho 
corner  of  her  apron.  Mr.  Argyll,  unquiet  and  pale, 
wandered  from  room  to  room.  The  office  remained 
closed ;  the  front  blinds  of  the  house  were  shut — it  was 
like  the  day  of  the  funeral. 

I  went  into  the  conservatory;  there  was  sunshine 
there,  and  sweetness — a  bright  luxuriance  of  beauty. 
It  was  more  solemn  to  me  than  the  darkened  parlors. 
I  plucked  a  white  rose,  holding  it  idly  in  my  fingers. 
It  was  half-past  eleven — at  twelve  the  ceremony  should 
have  been  performed.  Mary  came  in  while  I  stood 


136  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

there  wrapped  in  emotion  more  than  thought.     Her 
were  swollen  with  weeping,  her  hands  trembled, 
and  when  she  spoke,  her  lips  quivered  : 

"She  has  taken  out  all  the  wedding  apparel,  for  the 
first  time  since  that  day.  Mir  is  dre»ing  herself. 
has  put  on  the  robe  and  vail;  and  now  she  has  sent  me 
down  to  make  the  bouquet.  She  wants  some  white 
flowers  for  her  bosom.  She  stands  before  the  minor, 
putting  on  everything  as  carefully  as  if  poor  Henry — 
wen — down-stairs.  Oh,  Richard,"  she  cried,  breaking 
down  utterly  in  a  burst  of  tears,  and  throwing  herself 
into  my  anus,  "  it  would  break  your  heart  to  see  her ! 
It  almost  kills  me,  but  I  must  get  the  flowers.  It  is 
best  to  indulge  her." 

"  Yes,  it  is  best,"  I  answered,  soothing  her  as  best  I 
could,  when  my  own  voice  and  hand*  were  so  shaken. 
"I  will  help  you.  Don't  keep  her  waiting." 

I  took  the  scissors  from  her,  cutting  the  fairest  buds, 
the  most  perfect  flowers,  arranging  them  with  care  and 
skill. 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  she  said,"  continued  .Mary,  MS 
I  hastily  made  up  the  bouquet ;  "  she  says  that  to-day 
they  will  lie  married,  the  same  as  if  Henry  were  On 
earth  instead  of  in  heaven  ;  that  their  vows  shall  bo 
consummated  .-it  the  hour  appointed,  and  that  thereafter 
she  shall  hold  her.-elf  hi*  wifejiM  as  surely  as  it' he  had 
come  in  the  body 'to  fulfill  his  part  of  the  contract.  She 
has  her  prayer-book  open  at  the  marriage  ceremony. 
She  looks  so  sweet  and  calm,  as  beautiful  as  if  she,  too, 
were  an  angel  with  d.  1 1  \  -only  so  very  white, 
so  very  solemn — oh,  dear,  I  cannot  bear  it !"  and  a^ain 
I  had  to  compose  her,  wiping  away  her  tear-,  l.ef..iv  I 
sent  her  tip  with  the  bouquet.  As  she  went  out  into 
the  breakfast,  or  family-room,  which  opened  into  the 
conservatory,  I  saw  James  by  the  door,  and  I  knew, 
by  the  expression  of  his  face,  that  he  had  heard  what 


AST   OPEX   AVOWAL.  137 

passed  between  us.  Through  a  kind  of  alarm  and  vex- 
ation there  was  a  flash  of  disdain,  as  if  he  wanted  to 
say,  what  he  dared  not : 

"  What  a  fool  the  girl  is  to  cling  to  that  dust  and 
ashes !  Married,  indeed  !  She  shall  be  the  wife  of 
some  one  besides  a  ghost,  or  I  lose  my  guess." 

"  What  a  crotchety  idea  !"  he  said,  as  he  caught  my 
eye.  "  I  never  thought  Eleanor  would  be  so  whimsi- 
cal. She  ought  to  have  some  one  to  exert  a  healthy  in- 
fluence over  her,  or  she  will  injure  herself — she  surely 
will." 

"  You  ought  to  attempt  to  teach  her  a  more  practical 
view  of  life's  misfortunes.  I'm  afraid,  however,  you'll 
find  her  a  stupid  pupil." 

His  eye  flashed  into  mine  a  triumphant  gleam. 

"  '  Perseverance  conquers  all  obstacles,'  the  wise  ones 
say  ;  and  I'm  a  persevering  man,  you  know,  Richard." 

He  took  up  his  cap  and  lounged  out  into  the  garden. 
I  felt  a  pinking  at  my  heart  as  he  thus  openly  avowed 
his  hopes  and  expectations  ;  I  could  not  entirely  banish 
the  heavy  foreboding,  even  by  recalling  the  image  of 
the  stricken  girl,  at  that  moment  binding  herself,  in 
awful  and  mysterious  companionship,  with  the  spirit 
that  waited  for  her  across  the  portals  of  Time.  I 
watched  James  pacing  back  and  forth,  with  disquiet 
steps,  through  the  frozen  walks  of  the  garden ;  pres- 
ently he  lit  a  cigar,  and  went  out  on  the  lawn,  and  from 
thence  into  the  streets.  His  was  one  of  those  minds 
which  do  not  like  their  own  company  when  they  are 
uneasy.  How  he  managed  to  while  away  the  day  I  do 
not  know ;  tome  it  was  long  and  oppressive;  Mary 
remained  up  stairs  with  her  sister ;  Mr.  Argyll  sat  in 
the  library  with  a  book,  which  he  held  open  but  did  not 
read.  As  the  sun  declined,  I  felt  that  a  brisk  walk  in 
the  cold  air  would  be  the  best  medicine  for  my  droop- 
ing spirits — it  was  my  usual  remedy. 


188  T1IE    DEAD    LETTEB. 

If  I  remember  aright,!  had  not  been  in  the  direction 
of  Moreland  villa  since  that  singular  meeting  I  had 
there  with  the  person  who  had  since  played  so  conspic- 
uous a  part  in  our  thoughts,  if  not  in  our  eyes— except 
twice,  when  I  had  gone  with  Mr.  Burton  through  the 
vicinity,  in  hopes  of  tracing  her  from  the  point  of  her 
disappearance — but  to-day,  I  mechanically  chose  that 
road,  led  thither  by  the  chain  of  association.  Snow 
glistened  on  the  hilltops,  the  shores  of  the  river  weiv 
skirted  with  ice,  though  its  central  current  still  rolled 
bluely  between  those  crystal  walls.  It  was  sunset 
•when  I  began  my  walk;  before  I  readied  the  villa,  the. 
pink  flush  was  fading  from  the  snowy  summits;  one 
large  star,  preternatnrally  bright,  hung  <>\  cr  the  turrets 
of  the  lonely  house,  shining  through  the  flush  of  twi- 
light ;  gray  shadows  stretched  over  the1  barren  hillsides, 
and  a  cold  steel-blue  tinged  the  ice  in  the  river.  How 
desolate  the  place  looked,  stripped  of  ita  summer  gar- 
ments !  I  leaned  over  the  gate,  while  the  night  ap- 
proached, making  a  picture  of  how  the  villa  would 
have  appeared  at  this  hour,  hail  that  which  had  hap- 
pened not  happened.  It  would  ha\e  been  a  Maze  of 
light,  full  of  flowers  and  feasting,  and  alive  with  happy 
human  creatures.  It  had  been  the  intention  of  the 
young  couple  to  go  immediately  to  their  new  home, 
after  the  wedding-breakfast,  and  to  begin  their  house- 
keeping with  a  reception  of  their  friend*  tha1 
ning.  Instead  of  warmth  and  light,  gay  laughter  and 
music,  rolling  carriages  and  prancing  horses,  feasting, 
congratulations,  love,  beauty  and  happiness,  there  was 
silence  and  desertion,  oh,  how  appalling  !  I  could  m>t 
bear  the  contrast  between  what  was  and  what  should 
have  l»cen. 

Ik-fore  returning  to  the  village  I  thought  I  would 
call  upon  the  gardener's  wife,  Mrs.  Scott,  and  impure 
if  she  had  any  tidings  of  Miss  Sullivan ;  though  I 


A   NERVOUS   WOMAN.  139 

knew  very  well  that  if  she  had,  she  would  have  let  me 
heard  them  without  waiting  for  a  visit  from  me.  I  had 
grown  chilly,  leaning  so  long  over  the  gate,  after  my 
rapid  walk,  and  the  glow  through  the  window  of  the 
little  cottage  standing  at  the  back  of  the  kitchen-gar- 
den, looked  inviting.  I  made  my  way  around  to  the 
gate  at  the  back  of  the  premises,  and  was  soon  knock- 
ing at  the  door.  I  had  heard  Mrs.  Scott  singing  her 
baby  to  sleep  as  I  approached  the  house ;  but  after  I 
knocked  there  was  silence,  yet  no  one  answered  the 
summons. 

I  knocked  thrice,  the  last  time  rather  imperatively, 
for  I  was  chilly,  and  did  not  like  Availing  so  long,  when 
I  knew  I  must  be  heard.  At  this  the  door  was  opened 
a  little  way,  very  cautiously,  the  mistress  peering  out 
suspiciously. 

"  Laws  !  Mr.  Redfield,  is  it  you  ?" — throwing  the 
door  wide  open.  "  I  beg  your  pardon  for  keeping  you 
waiting.  If  I'd  had  any  idea  it  was  you,  I  shouldn't 
a'  been  skeered.  But  husband's  gone  to  the  village, 
and  I  was  alone  with  the  children,  and  when  you  knock- 
ed so  sudden,  rny  heart  came  right  up  in  my  mouth.  I 
didn't  like  to  see  who  'twas.  Do  come  in.  How  cold 
'tis  out  to-night.  You  look  real  blue.  Take  a  chair  by 
the  stove  and  warm  yourself.  I'm  real  ashamed  I  kept 
you  standing  so  long.  How  is  all  the  family,  sir  ?" 

"  About  as  usual,  Mrs.  Scott.  So  you  are  cowardly 
when  you  are  alone  evenings,  are  you  ?  I've  mistaken 
your  character,  then  ;  I've  given  you  credit  for  being 
one  of  the  strong-minded  women." 

"  Wai,  the  truth  is,"  she  said  apologetically,  "  I  never 
did  used  to  be  afraid  of  any  thing,  dead  or  alive.  But, 
since  young  Mr.  Henry  was  took  away  so  sudden,  I've 
been  nervous  and  frightened  like.  I've  never  got  over 
the  shock.  I'll  holler  right  out,  sometimes,  in  broad 
daylight,  if  any  thing  startles  me,  if  it's  only  a  door 


140  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

slamming.  Husband  laughs  at  me  and  scolds  me,  but 
I  can't  help  it." 

"  Noli, uly's  going  to  hurt  yow,  because  another  had 
evil  happen  to  him." 

"  I  know  that  as  well  as  anybody.  It's  not  because 
I've  reason  to  be  afeard,  that  I  am — it's  the  shock, 
you  see.  There,  there,  Johnny,  be  still,  will  you  ?  I 
used  to  go  all  over  the  place  the  darkest  night  th:r 
was — but  now,  reallv,  I'm  ashamed  to  tell  you,  I  dasn't 
put  my  lace  out  after  dark." 

"  I  should  think  it  would  be  unpleasant,  such  a 
chronic  state  of  fear,"  and  I  half-smiled  through  my 
own  melancholy,  at  the  woman's  anxioii- 

"Onpleasant!  I  reckon  it  is  mighty  unpleasant. 
But  there's  good  reason  for  it." 

"  You  just    fccknOWtodged    that    then'  wa-  no  v 
— that  it  was  faucx.  Mr-.  Scott." 

"You're  goin'  to  trip  me  over  my  own  words.  Mr. 
Red  field.  It  wts  fancy,  at  lir>t,  just  nervousness  ;  but 
lately — lately,  as  I  -aid.  there's  been  tin: 

"Whit  things?" 

"I  know  you'll  laugh  :it  me,  -ir:  and  you  won't 
half  believe  me,  neither — so  I  gMM  I'd  better  not  make 
a  fool  of  my-,- If  b.-forc  Y..II.  Hut  if  you.  ,,r  any  other 
livin'  (tcrson,  had  seen  what  I  seen,  and  heanl  what  I 
heard,  then  you'd  know  what  I  know  — that's  all!" 

She  spoke  with  Mich  evident  earne.-tne-s,  and  I  had 
hitherto  fell  so  much  respect  for  the  sturdy  -tren-jth 
and  integrity  of  her  New  Kn._rl:ind  character,  that  my 
curiosity  was  somewhat  aroused.  I  thought  ln-t  to  let 
her  quiet  herself,  hov, ,  ling  her  to  con- 

verse about  the  subject  most  on  her  mind,  as  I  saw  that 
she  Still  trembled  from  the  fright  I  had  L'ivcii  her  by 
my  Midden  knock  at  the  door. 

••  How's  the  place  get  tin.,' on  -iu.-e  the  winter  weather 
»et  in?  I  suppose  your  husband  had  the  plants  housed 


MRS.    SCOTT   ALARMED.  141 

long  ago.  Has  he  been  making  any  changes  with  the 
grounds  ?  I  suppose  not,  since  the  family  has  so  com- 
pletely desgrted  the  villa.  I  came  out  to-night  to  take 
a  look  at  it.  This  is  the  twenty-third  of  December,  do 
you  remember  ?" 

"  I've  been  thinkin'  of  it  all  day,  Mr.  Redfield." 

"  It's  terrible  to  see  the  house  standing  there  in  si- 
lence and  darkness,  to-night.  There  seemed  to  me 
something  ghostly  about  it — I  could  not  endure  it. 
Have  you  been  through  the  rooms  lately  ?" 

This  last  question  I  asked  without  any  other  object 
than  to  keep  up  the  conversation ;  she  had  started  and. 
looked  curiously  at  me,  when  I  casually  used  the  figur- 
ative expression  of  "  ghostly,"  and  now  she  shook  her 
head. 

"  I've  not  been  through  the  house  lately,"  she  said. 
"  I  ought  to  go,  I  know — it  wants  airin',  and  there's 
bedclothes  and  things  in  the  closet  wants  lookin'  after." 

"  Then  why  do  you  not  attend  to  it  ?" 

"  That's  it,"  she  answered,  looking  me  uneasily  in  the 
face. 

"What?" 

"  Well,  sir,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  it's  my  opinion,  and 
I  know,  laugh  as  you  may — " 

"  I  haven't  laughed,  Mrs.  Scott." 

She  arose,  looked  at  her  boy,  now  fast  asleep  in  his 
cradle,  went  to  the  window,  drew  the  little  white  cur- 
tain across  the  lower  half,  resumed  her  chair,  glanced 
about  the  room,  and  was  opening  her  lips  to  speak, 
when  a  slight  rattling  sound  against  the  panes  of  glass, 
made  her  clasp  her  hands  together  and  utter  a  cry. 

"  What  on  earth  was  that  ?" 

I  did  indeed  now  laugh  at  her  pale  face,  answering, 
in  some  vexation, 

"  It  was  the  snow  breaking  from  the  eaves,  and  slip- 
ping down  against  the  window." 


142  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

"  Oh  !"  drawing  a  long  breath.  "  You  are  provoked 
at  me,  Mr.  Redfield.  If  you  knew  all,  you  wouldn't 
be." 

"Well,  tell  me  all,  at  onoe,  then,  and  let  me  ju<Lr'-." 

Again  sin-  irave  a  cautious  look  about,  as  if  invisible 
guests  might  hear  and  not  relish  her  revelation,  drew 
her  chair  a  little  nearer  mine,  and  said,  impressively, 

"  The  house  it  haunted  /" 

"  Is  that  all  ?"  I  asked,  feeling  quite  relieved,  for  her 
manner  had  startled  me  in  spite  of  myst-lf. 

"  It's  enough  !"  was  the  significant  response.  "  To 
tell  you  flatly,  sir,  John's  about  concluded  to  write  to 
Mr.  Moreland,  and  give  up  the  situation." 

"Your  husband!  is  he  so  foolish,  too?  There  are 
no  such  things  as  haunted  housi-s,  Mrs.  Scott;  and  to 
give  up  a  permanent  and  excellent  home  like  this,  upon 
any  such  idle  fancy,  seems  to  me  very  unv,  i-< •." 

"Goodness  knows  I've  liked  the  place,"  she  cried, 
bursting  into  tears,  "  ami  that  we  don't  know  what  to 
turn  to  when  we  leave  this,  lint  I'm  worn  out  with  it 
— I  can't  stand  it  no  longer  !  You  see  how  unsettled  I 
am  now." 

Unsettled  enough,  certainly,  from  tho  usually  com- 
posed and  self-reliant  woman  in  whose  judgment  I  had 
placed  considerable  confidence. 

'  You  haven't  told  me  any  thing  to  prove  your  asser- 
tion. I  don't  believe  in  ghosts,  I  warn  you;  but  IM 
like  to  hear  your  reasons  for  thinking  tho  villa  has  got 
one." 

"  I  always  made  fun  of  ghosts,  myself,  and  so  did 
John,  until  this  happened.  He  won't  own  up  now,  'cept 
that  he's  ready  to  leave  the  place,  and  won't  go  in  with 
me  in  broad  daylight,  to  'tend  to  the  rooms.  So  I 
know  he's  just  as  scairt  as  I  am.  And  you  know  John's 
no  coward  with  any  thing  he  can  see  or  handle1,  ami  u'-< 
no  disgrace  to  a  body  to  be  shy  of  onearthly  things. 


A   MYSTERIOUS   LIGHT.  143 

I'm  a  bold  woman  myself,  but  I  ain't  ready  to  face  a 
spook." 

"  What  makes  yon  think  the  house  is  haunted?" 

"  Plenty  of  tilings." 

"  Please  mention  a  few.  I'm  a  lawyer,  you  know, 
and  demand  the  proofs." 

"  I've  seen  a  curious  light  hovering  over  the  roof  of 
the  house  of  nights." 

"Did  your  husband  see  it  also?" 

"  Yes,  he  did  see  it,  night  before  last.  He  wouldn't 
believe  till  he  see  it.  I've  seen  it  seven  or  eight  times 
myself." 

«  What  was  it  like  ?" 

"  Oh,  Lordy,  I'm  sure  I  can't  tell  exactly  what  it  was 
like,  when  I  never  saw  any  thing  of  the  kind  before  ; 
I  suppose  it's  like  them  dead-lights  that's  been  seen 
over  graves.  It's  more  like  a  bright  shadow  than  an 
actual  light — you  can  see  through  it  like  air.  It  wan- 
ders about  the  roof,  then  stops  over  one  pai'ticular 
place.  It  would  make  your  flesh  creep  to  see  it,  sir !" 

"  I  would  like,  above  all  things,  to  try  it.  Do  you 
suppose,  if  we  went  out  now,  we  should  have  the 
opportunity  ?" 

"  It's  too  early  ;  leastways,  I've  never  seen  it  so  early 
in  the  evenin'.  The  first  time,  my  baby  was  sick,  and 
I  got  up  in  the  night  to  get  him  some  drops,  and  as  I 
looked  out  the  window,  there  was  the  thing  shinin'." 

';  Is  that  all  that  makes  you  think  the  house  haunted  ?" 

"  No,  sir  ;  we've  heard  things — curious  sounds — 
even  in  the  daytime." 

"  What  were  the  sounds  like  ?" 

"  I  couldn't  rightly  explain  'em  to  you,  sir.  They 
were  not  human  sounds." 

"  Try  and  give  me  some  idea  of  them." 

"  They'd  rise  and  fall,  rise  and  fall — not  like  singing, 
nor  crying,  nor  talking — a  kind  of  wailing  music,  only 


144  THB   DEAD   LETTER. 

not  like  it,  either — that  is,  not  like  any  thing  I  ever 
heard.  It  seems  to  conu>  mostly  from  the  family-room, 
back  o' the  library.  John  and  me  followed  it  up  one 
evenin'.  We  went  close  "up  on  the  porch,  and  put 
our  ears  to  the  shutters.  We  heard  it  plain.  We 
was  so  frightened,  we've  been  glad  not  to  go  near 
the  house  again.  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  ever  could." 

*' I  think  I  know  what  it  was,"  I  -aid,  half  inclined 
to  laugh.  "The  doors  or  sa-li. -  ha-e  been  left  open 
in  such  a  way  as  to  make  a  draught.  It  is  the  wind, 
singing  through  the  crevices  of  the  deserted  nian>i«>n. 
I,  myself,  have  heard  the  wind  make  most  unearthly 
music  niuler  such  circumstances." 

"  Twa'n't  wind  at  all,"  said  the  gardener's  wife, 
in  an  offended  tone. 

"  Perhaps  persons  have  obtained  access  to  the  house 
that  have  no  business  there.  They  may  deface  the  fur- 
niture, or  carry  off  articles  of  value.  You  really  ought 
to  look  to  it,  Mrs.  Scott;  it's  part  of  your  duty." 

"  There's  nobody  got  in — I'm  certain  of  that.   V« 
examined   every  door  and    window.     There's   not   the 
lea^t  sign  of  any  human  being  about  the  prcmi.-e-.      I 
tell  you,  Mr.  Kedfield,  it's  spirits;  and  no  wonder,  con- 
sidering how  poor  Henry  wa>  took  aua\." 

She  said  this  solemnly,  relapsing  into  moody  silence. 

I  felt  quitO  convinced  that  the  imaginations  of  the 
pair,  already  awed  and  excited  by  the  murder,  had 
converted  some  trifling  atmospheric  or  other  phenomena, 
or  some  combination  of  circumstances,  easily  explained 
when  the  key  to  them  was  found,  into  the  mystery  of 
a  haunted  bouse.  I  was  sorry,  for  two  reasons  :  first, 
that  they  thought  of  leaving,  when  I  knew  that  their 
departure  would  give  trouble  to  Mr.  Moreland.  who 
had  left  the  entire  charge  of  the  place  to  them  for 
years,  and  at  a  time  when  he  was  too  bowed  with 
heavier  cares  to  be  vexed  with  these  small  matters ; 


AN  APPOINTMENT.  145 

second,  that  the  couple  would  be  sure  to  spread  the 
report  through  the  village,  causing  gossip  and  conjecture, 
and  exciting  a  prurient  interest  which  would  throng  the 
vicinity  with  idle  wonder-seekers.  So  I  said, 

"I  wish  your  husband  was  at  home  to-night.  I 
must  see  him.  It  will  not  do  for  him  to  trouble  Mr. 
Moreland  at  this  time,  by  throwing  up  his  situation. 
You  would  both  of  you  be  sorry  and  ashamed  at  such 
a  movement,  before  many  weeks,  I'm  convinced.  What 
do  you  say  to  my  coming  out  here  fo-morrow,  and  to 
our  going  through  the  house  together  ?  If  there  is  any 
thing  in  it  which  ought  not  to  be,  we  will  turn  it  out. 
I  will  stay  until  you  have  aired  the  house  and  looked 
at  the  clothing ;  then  you  can  lock  it  up,  and  leave  it 
for  a  few  weeks  without  the  necessity  of  going  through 
it." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Redfield,  if  you're  willin'  to  do  it,  I 
ought  to  be  ashamed  to  hang  behind.  I'll  do  it,  of 
course,  and  be  thankful  to  you ;  for  my  conscience  hain't 
been  easy,  lettin'  them  things  go  so.  I'm  right  glad 
you  happened  out." 

"  And  tell  your  husband,  please,  not  to  say  any  thing 
about  this  matter  to  others.  It  will  make  it  unpleasant 
for  the  friends." 

"  I  did  tell  him  not  to.  He  ain't  said  nothin'  yet, 
I'm  sure.  It's  the  last  thing  we'd  be  willin'  to  do, 
make  any  more  trouble  for  them  that  has  too  much 
now,  and  that  has  always  been  kind  to  us.  Must  you 
go,  sir  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I'll  say  good-night,  Mrs.  Scott.  You  may 
expect  me  in  the  morning,  a  little  before  noon.  By 
the  way,  have  you  seen  or  heard  any  thing  of  Miss 
Sullivan  ?" 

"  Not  the  least  thing.  She's  kept  clear  of  here 
since  that  day  you  found  her  here.  So  she's  run 
away,  entirely,  has  she  ?  Well,  well,  well — I  never ! 


146  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

I  declare,  I  turn  these  things  over  in  my  brain,  some 
days,  till  my  head  gets  dizzy." 

"So  does  mine,  and  my  heart  sick.  Good-ni^ht, 
ma'am." 

"  Good-night,  and  good  luck  to  you,  this  dark  night." 

She  waited  to  see  me  through  the  gate,  which  led 
by  a  little  lane  past  the  kitchen-garden,  and  thence  by 
a  private  road  along  down  into  the  main  one.  As  I 
passed  the  gate  into  the  lawn,  on  my  way  out,  I  paused 
perhaps  half  an  hour,  in  the  hope  of  hearing  or  seeing 
the  marvels  of  which  the  woman  had  spoken.  There 
was  no  mystic  light,  blue  or  yellow,  playing  lambent  ly 
over  the  roof;  no  sound,  sinking  and  ri.-ing,  came 
wildly  on  the  starlit  air  ;  all  was  profound  silence  and 
darkness  and  coldness  like  that  of  the  gra\  e. 

My  half-contemptuous  pity  of  the  state  of  mind  into 
which  the  gardener's  wife  had  worked  herself,  gave 
place  to  deeper  emotions  ;  I  turned  away,  almost  run- 
ning along  the  smooth,  hard-frozen  road  whose  course 
was  clearly  discernible  in  tin-  winter  .starlight.  1  met 
the  gardener  going  home,  but  did  not  stop  to  sju-i.k 
with  him — went  directly  to  my  lodgings.  The  fire 
was  out  in  my  room,  and  I  crept  into  bed,  forgetting 
that  I  had  gone  without  my  u-a. 

True  to  my  promise,  I  went  the  next  day  to  the  villa. 
Mrs.  Scott  brought  tin.-  keys,  I  unlocked  the  doors,  ami 
together  we  entered  the  long-vacant  place.  There  is 
always  something  imp:  might  say,  "ghostly," 

about  a  deserted  building.  When  you  enter  into  it, 
you  feel  the  influence  of  those  who  wen-  last  within  it, 
as  if  some  portion  of  them  lingered  in  the  old  locality. 
I  confess  that  I  felt  an  almost  superstitious  awe  and 
dread,  as  I  stepped  over  the  threshold  which  I  had  last 
crowed  with  him.  H.»w  j»yful,  how  full  of  young  and 
princely  life,  hu  had  then  been,  his  fare  lit  up,  as  ft 
man's  face  lights  up  when  he  attends  upon  the  woman 


IN   THE    HOUSE.  147 

he  loves  and  expects  soon  to  make  his  own  !  He  was 
leading  Eleanor  to  a  carnage  ;  they  had  been  talking 
about  the  improvements  they  were  going  to  make  in 
the  house.  How  every  look  and  tone  came  back  to 
me !  With  a  silent  shudder,  I  stepped  into  the  hall, 
which  had  that  moldy  smell  of  confined  air  belonging 
to  a  closed  dwelling.  I  hastened  to  throw  open  the 
shutters.  When  I  unclosed  a  door,  I  flung  it  wide, 
stepping  quickly  in,  and  raising  the  windows,  so  as  to 
have  the  sunlight  before  looking  much  about.  I  had 
to  do  it  all,  for  my  companion  kept  close  to  me,  never 
stirring  from  my  elbow.  I  went  into  every  room  on 
every  floor,  from  the  kitchen  to  the  garret.  Into  the 
latter  I  only  glanced,  as  Mrs.  Scott  said  there  was  no- 
thing up  there  which  she  wanted,  or  which  required 
attention.  It  was  a  loft,  rough-floored,  of  comfortable 
hight,  with  a  window  at  the  gable  end.  The  roof 
ran  up  sharply  in  the  center,  the  villa  being  built  in 
the  Gothic  style.  There  was  such  a  collection  of  rub- 
bish in  it  as  is  usual  to  such  places — broken-down  fur- 
niture, worn-out  trunks,  a  pile  of  mattresses  in  a 
corner,  over  which  a  blanket  had  been  thrown  to  keep 
them  from  the  dust,  some  clothing  depending  from  a 
line,  and  three  or  four  barrels.  Mrs.  Scott  was  standing 
at  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  which  led  up  into  the  attic 
out  of  a  small  room,  or  closet,  used  for  storing  pur- 
poses. I  saw  she  was  uneasy  at  having  me  even  that 
far  from  her,  and  after  a  brief  survey  of  the  garret,  I 
assured  her  there  were  no  ghosts  there,  and  de- 
scended. 

"  Help  yourself  to  some  of  them  apples,"  said  the 
woman,  pointing  to  some  boxes  and  barrels  in  the  room 
where  we  now  stood.  "  They're  winter  pippins.  John's 
going  to  send  them  into  the  city,  to  the  family,  in  a 
week  or  two.  We've  permission  to  keep  'em  here,  be- 
cause it's  dry  and  cool,  and  the  closet  being  in  the 


148  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

middle  of  the  house,  it  don't  freeze.     It's  a  good  place 
for  fruit.     Hark  !     What  was  that  ?" 

"  It  was  a  cat,"  said  I,  as  I  put  a  couple  of 
the  apples  in  my  overcoat  pocket.  "  It  sounded  like 
a  cat — in  the  garret.  If  we  shut  it  up  there,  it'll 
starve." 

I  went  up  the  ladder  again,  looking  carefully  about 
the  attic,  and  calling  coaxingly  to  the  animal,  but  no 
cat  showed  itself,  and  I  came  down,"  Haying  it  must 
have  been  in  one  of  the  lower  rooms,  and  had  probably 
run  in  since  we  opened  the  doors. 

"  It  sartingly  sounded  overhead,"  persisted  my  com- 
panion, looking  nervous,  and  keeping  closer  to  me  than 
ever. 

I  had  heard  the  noise,  but  would  not  have  undertaken 
to  say  whether  it  came  from  above  or  below. 

"  If  that  is  the  material  she  makes  ghosts  of,  I'm 
not  surprised  that  she  has  a  full  supply,"  I  thought. 

In  going  out,  the  woman  was  careful  to  close  the 
door,  and  I  could  see  her  stealing  n>\i-rt  glances  into 
every  corner,  as  we  passed  on,  as  if  she  expected,  mo- 
mently, t«>  be  confronted  by  some  imuelcome  appar- 
ition, there  in  the  broad  light  of  day.  Tlu-iv  were  no 
of  any  intruders  ha\in^  made  free  with  the 
house.  The  clothes  and  china  closets  were  undisturbed, 
and  the  bureaus  the  same. 

"This  was  Harry's  room;  lie  liked  it  because  it  had 
the  best  view  of  the  river,"  said  Mrs.  Scott,  as  we 
paused  before  a  chamlK-r  on  the  second  tloor. 

We  both  hesitated  ;  her  apron  was  at  her  eyes,  and 
my  own  throat  swelled  suddenly  :  reverently  I  opened 
the  door,  and  stepped  within,  followed  by  the  ],• 
keeper.  As  I  raised  the  window,  and  flung  back  the 
shutter,  she  gave  a  scream.  I  was  really  startled. 
Turning  quickly,  I  saw  her  with  her  hands  thrown  up, 
an  expression  of  terror  upon  her  face. 


A  GOOD   SPIRIT.  149 

"  I  told  you  the  house  was  haunted,"  she  murmured, 
retreating  backward  toward  the  door. 

"  What  do  you  see  ?"  I  asked,  glancing  about  for 
the  cause  of  her  alarm. 

"  This  room,"  she  gasped — "  it  was  his — and  he 
comes  here  still.  I  know  it !" 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?  Has  it  been  disturbed  ? 
If  it  has,  rest  assured  it  has  been  by  the  living,  not  the 
dead." 

"  I  wish  I  thought  so,"  she  said,  solemnly.  "  It  can 
not  be.  No  other  part  of  the  house  is  in  the  least  dis- 
turbed. No  one  has  had  admission  to  it — it  is  impos- 
sible" ;  not  a  crack,  not  a  cranny,  by  which  any  thing 
but  a  spirit  could  have  got  in.  Harry's  been  here,  Mr. 
Redfield ;  you  can't  convince  me  different." 

"  And  if  he  has,"  I  said,  calmly,  for  I  saw  that  she 
was  much  agitated,  "  are  you  any  more  afraid  of  him 
now  than  you  were  when  he  was  in  the  body?  You 
loved  him  then  ;  think  you  he  will  harm  you  now  ? 
Rather  you  ought  to  be  glad,  since  you  believe  in 
ghosts,  that  it  is  a  good  spirit  which  haunts  these  prem- 
ises—  the  innocent  spirit  of  the  murdered,  not  the 
guilty  one  of  the  murderer." 

"  I  know  it,"  she  said.  "  I'm  not  afraid — I  don't 
think  I  could  be  really  afraid  of  Henry's  ghost,  even  if 
I  should  see  it ;  but  it's  so — awful,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Not  to  me,  at  all.  If  such  things  were  permitted, 
I  should  like  to  meet  this  spiritual  visitant,  and  ask 
him  the  one  question — if,  indeed,  he  could  answer  it. 
I  should  like  to  have  him  point  out  the  guilty.  If  his 
hand  could  reach  out  from  the  spiritual  world,  and 
stretch  a  blasting  finger  toward  his  murderer,  that 
would  be  awful  to  the  accursed  one,  but  it  would  be 
welcome  to  me.  But  what  makes  you  think  Henry 
has  been  here  ?" 

She  pointed  to  the  bed ;  there  was  a  pressure  upon 


150  THE    DEAD    LETTER. 

it,  as  if  some  light  shnpe  had  lain  there— just  the  faint- 
est indentation  of  a  head  on  one  of  the  pillows;  from 
thence  she  pointed  to  a  little  writin^-taMe,  between  the 
windows,  on  which  a  book  lay  open,  and  where  there 
were  some  papers  and  engravings ;  then  to  a  pair  of 
slippers  standing  on  the  carpet  at  the  head  of  the  bed. 
The  room  was  a  delightful  one,  furnished  with  blue 
ami  white — Henry's  favorite  colors.  Two  or  tin* 
quisite  little  pictures  hung  on  the  walls,  and  not  tin- 
slightest  toy  occupied  a  niche  in  any  place  but  spoke 
of  the  taste  and  refinement  which  had  chosen  it.  From 
the  two  windows,  the  vil-w  of  the  river  Mowing  amidst 
the  hills,  and  the  lovely  country  spreading  far  away, 
was  such  as  would  satisfy  the  eye  of  a  poet,  turned 
from  the  pa<_je  before  him  on  the  little  writing-table,  to 
rest  upon  the  fairer  page  of  nature. 

"I  came  into  this  room  the  day  of  the  funeral,"  said 
the  housekeeper,  with  a  trembling  \ -oice.  "  and  I  sot  all 
to  rights,  as  if  the  master  was  coming  back  the  next 
day.  Hut  little  I  thought  he  would  ivilly  come  !  I 
spread  that  bed  as  smooth  as  paper:  I  put  on  fresh 
slips  on  the  pillows,  and  sot  'em  up  without  a  dent  or 
wrinkle  in 'em;  I  put  his  slippers  with  their  t«  • 
the  wall,  and  now  they're  standin'  as  he  always  left 
'em  when  he  took  'em  off.  Them  papers  has  been 
Stirred,  and  he's  been  readin'  in  that  book.  She  gave 
him  that,  and  it  was  a  fa\orite  \\ith  him;  I've  often 
seen  him  with  it  in  his  hand.  You  may  sh.-ike  your 
head.  .Mr.  Uedtield,  but  /  ki,vir  Henry's  been  back  hen- 
in  his  room." 

"If  any  thing  in  this  room  has  ln-.-n  disturbed,  rest 
assured  there's  been  some  living  intruder  here.  A  spirit 
would  have  had  no  need  of  slipper-,  and  would  have 
made  no  impression  on  your  smooth  bed." 

"  You  can  talk  your  big  words,  for  you  are  an  «li- 
cated  man,  Mr.  Redfield,  but  you  can't  convince  me 


WHAT  WAS   IT?  151 

against  ray  own  persuasion.  It's  been  no  human  being 
has  mussed  that  spread — why,  it's  hardly  wrinkled — 
you  can  just  see  it's  been  laid  on,  and  that's  all.  Be- 
sides, how  did  they  get  in  ?  Can  you  tell  me  that  ? 
Through  the  keyhole,  niebbe,  and  went  out  the  same 
way !" 

Her  voice  was  growing  sharp  and  a  little  sarcastic. 
I  saw  that  it  was  in  vain  to  try  to  disabuse  her  mind 
of  its  impression  while  she  was  in  her  present  excited 
state.  And,  indeed,  I  had  no  worthy  argument  to 
offer.  To  all  appearance  the  rest  of  the  house  had 
been  undisturbed ;  there  was  not  a  broken  fastening,  a 
displaced  bar  of  any  kind,  and  nothing  missing.  It 
would  seem  as  if  nothing  weightier  than  a  shadow  had 
stirred  the  pillow,  and  moved  about  the  room.  As 
long  as  1  could  not  tell  what  it  was,  I  could  not  posi- 
tively assert  what  it  was  not. 

I  sat  by  the  open  window,  while  she  smoothed  the 
pillow,  and  placed  every  article  with  an  exactness  which 
would  inevitably  betray  the  slightest  disturbance. 

"  You  shall  see  for  yourself,  sir,  the  next  time  you 
come  here,"  she  muttered. 

As  I  waited,  I  lifted  a  little  volume,  which  lay,  with 
others,  on  the  table  before  me.  It  was  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing's, and  it  opened  at  a  page  where  a  book-mark  had 
been  left — once  I  had  seen  Eleanor  embroidering  that 
very  mark,  I  was  sure.  The  first  lines  which  caught 
my  eye  were  these : 

"  It  trembled  on  the  grass 

With  a  low,  shadowy  laughter; 
The  sounding  river,  which  rolled  forever, 
Stood  dumb  and  stagnant  after." 

Just  then  a  cloud  swept  over  the  noonday  sun  ;  a 
chill  struck  through  the  open  window  ;  the  wind  which 
blew  in,  fluttering  the  page,  could  not'  have  been  more 
dreary  had  it  blown  across  a  churchyard.  Shivering, 
I  continued  to  read  : 


152  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 


••  /'  trembled  on  the  i 

With  a  low,  shadowy  laughter ; 
And  the  wind  did  toll,  as  a  passing  soul 

Were  sped  by  church-boll  after ; 
And  shadows  'stead  of  light. 
Fell  from  the  stars  above, 
In  flakes  of  darkness  on  her  face 
Still  bright  with  trusting  love. 
Margret!  Margretl 

He  lovfd  but  only  thee ! 

That  love  la  transient,  too ; 
The  wild  hawk's  bill  doth  dabble  still 

In  the  mouth  that  vowed  thee  true. 
Will  ho  open  his  dull  eyes, 

When  tears  fall  on  his  brow? 
Behold  the  donih-worm  in  his  heart 

Is  a  nearer  thing  than  thou, 

Margret !  Margret  I" 

1  know  not  if  the  housekeeper  spoke  to  me.  The 
cloudfl  thicki'iinl  :il»«mt  tin-  sun  ;  a  <l:uii]uu"^  came  in 
from  the  air.  I  held  the  book,  staring  at  it,  like  .-in- 
in  a  trance,  and  pondering  the  strange  coincidence. 
Evidently,  Henry  ha«l  iv.nl  these  \i-rsr*  when  he  last 
opened  the  book — perhaps  the  lovers  had  read  them 
together,  with  a  soft  sigh  for  the  fate  of  Martzret,  ami 
a  smile  in  each  other's  faces  to  think  how  salt-  f/in'r 
happiness  was — how  far  removal  from  this  iloU-fiil 
'•  Komaiint."  Now  would  he  "open  his  dull  eyes," 
for  Eleanor's  tears  ?  I  seemed  to  hear  the  low  laugh 
of  the  mocking  fiend;  a  more  than  wintry  soreness 
nettled  upon  the  landscape : 

"  //  trembled  on  the  floor !" 

Yes!  I  was  fast  iri-ttini;  into  tin-  mood  for  believing 
anything  which  Mrs.  Scott  might  assert  about  the  oc- 
cupant of  this  chamber.  Km«>ti»ns  which  1  hail  m-\.-r 
before  c\prri»-ncc.l  chillrd  my  In-art  ;  sha|>cs  he-/ 
gather  in  fvrrv  obscure  corner ;  when  the  rising  wind 
suddenly  blew  a  door  shut,  in  the  hall  beneath,!  started 
to  my  feet. 

"We're  gob'  to  have  a  stormy  Christmas,"  said  my 


GLOOM.  153 

companion.  "It'll  suit  our  feelin's  better'n  a  sunny 
one,  I'm  sure.  Hark !  there's  my  Johnny  cryin',  I  do 
believe  !  I  should  think  his  father  could  keep  him.  quiet 
a  bit,  till  I  get  the  house  shut  up  again." 

"  It  was  that  cat,  I  thought." 

"  Never  mind.  I'm  through  now,  if  you  please, 
sir.  Take  a  look  at  this  room,  and  fix  it  on  your 
mind,  if  you  will ;  and  the  next  time  you're  out  here, 
we'll  open  it  together." 

"We  reclosed  and  barred  the  shutters  throughout 
the  house,  carefully  fastened  the  doors,  once  more 
leaving  it  to  its  desolation.  We  had  seen  no  ghosts ; 
I  do  not  suppose  the  woman  expected  to  see  any, 
but  I  felt  certain  that  her  fears  were  in  no  manner  dis- 
pelled. 

"  You  see  the  place  is  all  right,"  I  said,  when  I  hand- 
ed her  the  keys.  "  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  to 
make  you  uneasy.  I  v.rould  as  soon  sleep  alone  in  the 
villa  as  in  my  own  room.  I  will  do  it,  soon,  if  you  are 
not  satisfied.  All  I  ask  of  you  is  not  to  write  to  Mr. 
Moreland  until  I  have  seen  you  again.  I  shall  come 
out  before  many  days,  to  see  how  you  get  along." 

"  We  shall  wait  until  you  come  again,  sir,  before  we 
say  any  thing.  I  feel  better,  now  things  are  'tended 
to.  There's  Johnny  crying  again  !  Well,  Mr.  Red- 
field,  good-by.  It'll  snow  by  the  time  you  get  home." 

I  had  a  wild  walk  back  to  the  village — full  of  lonely 
magnificence  and  gloom,  which  suited  my  temper.  Gray 
mists  hung  over  the  river  and  swept  about  the  bases 
of  the  hills  ;  gray  clouds  whirled  around  their  summits  ; 
gray  snow  came  down  in  blinding  drifts  ;  a  savage  wind 
seemed  to  be  blowing  the  universe  about  my  ears. 


154  THE   DEAD  LETTER. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

THE   LITTLE   GUEST   AXD  THE    APPARITION. 

I  WEXT  to  Mr.  Argyll's  to  the  Christmas  dinner.  I 
was  surprised  to  meet  Eleanor  in  the  family  group ; 
for,  though  she  now  frequently  joined  thr  home  circle, 
I  thought  that  on  this  holiday  her  own  I.--  would 
press  upon  her  with  overwhelming  weight.  Instead  of 
this,  I  saw  .1  light  in  her  countenance  which  it  had 
never  before  worn  ;  her  face,  totally  devoid  of  smiles  or 
color,  yet  shone  with  a  serene  and  solemn  luster,  the 
most  t  •;ic!iiii'_r.  the  most  laddeniBg,  and  yet  elevating, 
of  any  expression  I  had  t-vcr  M-CII  upon  human  features. 
My  intense  sympathy  with  her  taught  me  how  to  trans- 
late this  new  phase  of  her  mind  ;  I  felt  that,  in 
mystic  vows  which  she  had  taken  upon  herself  with  a 
spirit,  she  had  derived  a  comfort  ;  that  she  joyed  in  the 
consciousness  that  she  was  now  and  from  henceforth 
evermore  the  bride  of  him  who  waited  for  her  in  the 
mansions  of  the  Heavenly  country.  This  lif,.  was  trail- 
to  1,.-  meekly  borne  a  little  while  alone— then 
she  would  go  to  him  who  awaited  her  in  the  only  true 
and  abiding  home.  I,  and  I  only,  looked  upon  1. 
the  wife  of  Henry  Moivlan.i  iiy  as  if  he  were 

her  living  partner.  I  only  was  lilted,  by  the  power  of 
my  own  passion  and  sulVering.  to  appreciate  her  position, 
and  the  feelings  with  which  she  now  returned  to  her 
friends,  to  play  such  a  part  in  life  as  duty  Still  pointed 
out.  I  can  not  explain  with  what  an  emotion  <>!' 
erenee  I  took  and  pressed  the  little,  attenuated  hand 
which  she  placed  in  mine. 

There  had  been,  as  yet,  no  change  in  Eleanor's  de- 
meanor toward  me.     Whether  I  imagined  it  in  the  rest 


THE    CHU13TMAS    DUSTER.  155 

of  the  family,  or  whether  they  had  changed,  this  much 
was  still  certain,  and  gave  me  the  deepest  pleasure  I 
could  now  know :  Eleanor  was  the  same  to  me  as  she 
had  ever  been — the  benignant,  gentle  sister,  who  loved 
and  trusted  me  as  a  dear  brother — more  clear  than  ever 
since  I  had  given  such  proofs  of  my  devotion  to  her 
cause — since  she  could  not  but  see  how  my  very  heart 
was  wrung  with  the  pain  which  tore  her  own.  As 
long  as  she  continued  to  treat  me  thus,  as  long  as  I 
could  give  her  one  smallest  atom  of  pleasure  in  any  way, 
I  felt  that  I  could  bear  any  thing  from  the  others.  Not 
that  there  was  any  thing  to  bear — nothing — nothing, 
except  that  indefinable  air  which  a  sensitive  spirit  feels 
more  keenly  than  any  open  slight.  The  new  year  was 
now  approaching;  it  would  be  the  most  natural  time 
for  entering  into  HBAV  business  relations ;  I  felt  that  if 
Mr.  Argyll  intended  to  offer  me  the  partnership,  ho 
•would  do  it  then.  If  he  did  not — I  must  look  out  for 
myself — I  must  go  away. 

The  Christmas  dinner  was  the  sumptuous  feast  which 
it  always  had  been,  the  old  housekeeper  having  taken 
it  into  her  own  hands.  She,  to  judge  by  her  provision, 
felt  that  such  kind  of  painstaking  would  be  a  relief  to 
the  general  gloom.  No  guests  were  invited,  of  course. 
It  was  touching  to  see  how  the  servants  persisted  in 
placing  every  imaginable  delicacy  before  Miss  Eleanor, 
which  she  could  not,  by  any  possibility,  even  taste.  A 
cup  of  coffee,  with  a  piece  of  bread,  made  up  her  slen- 
der Christmas  feast.  Yet  it  was  a  joy  to  her  father  to 
have  her  at  the  table  at  all.  Mary's  affectionate  glances 
continually  sought  her  face;  parent  and  sister  both 
felt  relieved  and  comforted  by  its  tranquil  expres- 
sion. 

James,  too,  was  cheerful ;  he  would  have  been  bril- 
liant had  an  opportunity  offered.  I,  who  read  him 
tolerably  well,  knew  that  it  was  the  sight  of  Eleanor's 


156  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

tranquillity  which  had  inspired  him-r-and  that  he  did 
not  understand  that  saintly  resignation  as  I  did. 

In  the  course  of  the  conversation  around  the  table, 
which  I  did  my  best  to  make  cheerful,  1  happened  to 
speak  of  Lenore  Burton.  It  was  not  the  first  time  1 
had  mentioned  her,  always  with  such  enthusiasm  as  to 
excite  the  interest  of  the  ladies.  Mary  asked  me  many 
questions  about  her,  finally  turning  to  her  sister,  and 
saying, 

"You  were  always  so  fond  of  children,  Eleanor. 
May  I  not  send  for  this  beautiful  little  girl  to  spend  a 
few  days  with  us  ?" 

"  Certainly,  Mary,  if  you  think  you  would  like  her 
company." 

"  Do  you  think  her  father  would  trust  her  to  us  a 
little  while,  Kit-hard  ?" 

"lie  can  be  persuaded,  without  doubt." 

Alter  \\e  had  let'i  the  table,  Mary  came  to  me,  with 
much  animation,  to  whisper  her  ideas  about  the  pro- 
posed visit;  she  thought  the  sight  of  an  agreeable, 
lovely  child  about  the  house  might  interest  Eleanor 
more  than  any  tiling  Hsc  possibly  could,  and  would,  at 
least,  delight  her  lather,  who  was  drooping  under  the 
silence  and  mourning  in  his  home.  I  <juite  air  reed  with 
her  in  her  opinions,  deciding  to  write  that  evening  a 
pressing  plea  to  Mr.  Urn-ton,  promi-in^  the  most  . 
ful  attention  to  his  frail  little  household  blossom  which 
a  trusty  housekeeper  and  loving  friends  could  extend. 
I  WOUld  COmc  down  to  the  city  for  her,  and  attend  her 
dutifully  on  her  little  journey,  if  hi-  eon-cut  was  Lrhen, 
and  Miss  Lenore  herself  approved  the-  action. 

The  next  day  I  had  an  an-wer.  Mr.  llurton  wrote 
that  Lenor.  iited  with  the  invitation,  nd  that 

he  accepted  it  the  more  willingly,  as  he  was  called  un- 
expectedly to  Boston,  where  ho  should  be  absent  a 
week  or  ten  days,  and  that  he  had  not  liked  leaving  his 


THE    ARRIVAL.  157 

daughter  so  lonely  during  the  holidays.  He  added  that 
he  was  obliged  to  leave  that  morning;  but  I  might 
come  for  Lenore  at  any  time  ;  I  would  find  her  ready ; 
and  that,  upon  his  return  from  Boston,  he  would  come 
up  to  Blankville  after  her ;  closing  his  note  with  polite 
thanks  for  our  friendly  interest  in  his  little  girl,  etc. 
Thus  every  thing  was  satisfactory.  The  third  clay  after 
Christmas  I  went  down,  in  the  morning,  to  New  York, 
returning  in  the  afternoon  with  my  little  treasure,  who 
was  brimful  of  happiness,  enjoying  the  ride  with  the 
zest  of  childhood,  and  confiding  herself  to  my  guardian- 
ship with  a  joyful  content,  which  awakened  my  tender- 
est  care  in  response.  This  artless  faith  of  the  child  in 
the  providence  of  the  grown-up  man  it  is  which  brings 
.put  the  least  selfish  part  of  his  character,  bowing  his 
haughty,  hardened  nature  to  minister  to  the  humblest 
of  its  confiding  wants. 

The  sisters  both  came  into  the  hall  to  receive  their 
little  visitor.  They  took  her  into  the  parlors,  bright 
with  chandelier  and  firelight,  unhooding  and  uncloaking 
her  before  the  grate.  I  was  anxious  to  witness  the  im- 
pression she  made,  for  I  had  been  so  lavish  of  my 
praises,  as  to  run  the  risk  of  creating  a  disappointment. 

It  was  impossible  to  be  disappointed  in  Lenore.  She 
made  conquest  of  the  whole  family  in  the  half-hour  be- 
fore tea.  It  was  not  her  exquisite  beauty  alone,  but  her 
sweet  expression,  her  modest  self-possession  amid  her 
stranger  -  friends,  enhancing  its  effect.  Mr.  Argyll 
brightened  as  I  had  not  lately  seen  him  ;  every  other 
minute  Mary  would  repeat  the  welcome  of  her  little 
guest  Avith  another  kiss,  declaring,  in  her  pretty,  willful 
way,  that  Mr.  Richard  was  not  going  to  monopolize 
Miss  Lenore  because  he  was  the  oldest  acquaintance — 
Lenore  having  chosen  her  seat  by  my  side,  with  her 
hand  nestled  in  mine. 

James  was  not  in  the  house ;  he  did  not  come  home 


158  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

until  some  time  after  we  had  taken  our  tea — drank  his 
alone  in  the  dining-room — and  joined  our  circle  quite 
late  in  the  evening.  As  lu>  came  in  we  were  sitting 
about  the  tire.  L<n»>;v  h:;tl  L'<MU-.  of  her  own  inclina- 
tion, to  Mi--  Argyll's  side,  where  she  sat  on  a  lowstunl, 
with  her  head  against  the  lady's  lap.  She  made  a  u:iy 
picture  as  she  sat  there,  framed  around  with  the  1'lack 
of  Eleanor's  garments.  Her  traveling-dress  was  of 
crimson  merino,  and  her  cheeks— what  with  the  ride  in 
the  cold  air,  and  the  glow  of  the  present  lire,  were  al- 
most as  red  as  her  dress  ;  while  her  golden  curls  >t  ream- 
ed in  shining  strands  over  the  sable  habiliments  against 
which  she  rested.  She  was  replying  archly  to 
teasing  remark  of  Mr.  Argyll's,  and  I  was  thinking 
what  a  brightness  she  would  gift  to  the  dull  house, 
when  James  came  forward,  holding  out  his  hand,  with 
one  of  his  pleasantest  smiles,  saying, 

"This  is  the  litlle  lady,  is  it,  \\hom  we  ha\e  been  so 
anxiously  waiting  to  see?,  (.'an  I  be  introduced, 
cousin  Mary,  or  does  not  the  Queen  of  Fairies  allow 
herself  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  ordinary  m<»r- 

You  have  noticed,  reader,  how  some  little  cloud, 
floating  in  the  west  at  sunset,  will  be  (lushed  through 
with  rosy  light,  and  how,  instantly,  while  yon  gaxe,  it 
will  turn  gray,  losing  every  particle  of  radiance.  So 
the  child  changed  when  he  approaehcd  and  sp, 
her.  Her  cheeks  faded  to  a  gray  whiteness  ;  her 
were  riveted  on  his,  but  she  could  not  smile  ;  she  seem- 
ed to  struggle  with  some  inward  repugnance  and  her 
sense  of  what  courtesy  demanded  :  finally  she  laid  her 
little  cold  hand  in  his,  without  a  word,  suffered  him  to 
kiss  her,  and,  clinging  close  to  Eleanor,  remained  pale 
and  quiet — ber  ga\  ety  and  bloom  were  alike  g«  me.  .M  i . 
Argyll  could  not  rally  her— she  shrunk  like  a  sensitive* 
plant. 


GOOD-NIGHT.  159 

"  If  that  pallid,  stupid  little  creature  is  the  marvelous 
child  Richard  promised  us,  I  must  say,  he  has  sho\vn 
his  usual  good  taste,"  commented  James  in  an  aside  to 
Mary.  He  was  not  flattered  by  the  reception  he  had 
met. 

"  Something  is  the  matter  with  her,  James.  She  is 
wearied  with  her  journey.  I  am  afraid  we  are  keeping 
her  up  too  late.  She  was  gay  enough  a  little  while 
since." 

"  Are  you  tired  ?  "Would  you  wish  to  go  to  bed  ?" 
whispered  Miss  Argyll. 

"  If  you  please,"  she  replied,  with  an  air  of  relief. 

"  You  are  not  getting  homesick  so  soon  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Argyll. 

"  I  am  not ;  I  like  it  here  very  much,"  answered  Le- 
nore,  candidly.  "  Something  is  the  matter  with  me 
now,  sir,  and  you  must  please  excuse  me.  My  head 
began  to  ache  just  now — so  1  suppose  I  had  better  go 
to  bed." 

She  bade  us  good-night  with  a  smile  so  restrained 
that  I  felt  afraid  she  was  not  going  to  enjoy  her  visit. 
Eleanor  herself  took  her  away  to  the  maid  who  was 
to  attend  upon  her,  and  did  not  return  to  us  until  her 
little  guest  was  in  bed. 

"  Come,  Mary,  let's  drop  the  baby  question,  and  play 
chess,"  said  James,  impatiently,  as  we  discussed  the 
visitor  ;  "  I'm  tired  of  the  subject." 

''  Wait  until  to-morrow,  and  you  will  become  inter- 
ested too,"  she  responded. 

"  I  like  hearty  little  bread-and-butter  girls,"  said  he, 
"  but  not  such  die-away  misses  as  that.  She  looks  to 
me  as  if  she  read  Coleridge  already.  Children  should 
be  children,  to  please  me." 

The  repulsion  was  mutual.  I,  only,  had  noticed  the 
strange  effect  wrought  upon  my  pet  by  a  sight  of 
James,  and  knowing,  as  I  did,  the  peculiarities  of  her 


100  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

temperament,  it  had  astonished  me,  and  aroused  my 
curiosity.  By  the  ill-humor  with  \vhk-h  he  received 
any  allusion  to  Lcnore,  I  believed  that  James  him>elf 
was  conscious  that  the  pure  eyes  of  the  child  looked 
straight  into  the  darker  chambers  of  his  heart,  and 
was  frightened  by  what  she  saw  there.  A  young  man 
who  was  gambling  away  his  uncle's  property  upon  the 
credit  of  a  daughter's  hand  which  he  had  not  yet  won, 
could  not  have  a  very  ea>y  conscience  ;'  and  it  was  not 
a  pleasant  thing  to  be  reminded  of  his  delinquent 
the  clear  eyes  of  an  innocent  child.  As  he  became  al>- 
sorbed  in  his  game  of  chess,  I  sat  studying  his  coun- 
tenance, and  thinking  of  many  things.  I  wondered  if 
his  uncle  and  cousins  were  not  aware  of  the  change 
which  was  coming  over  him;  that  recklcs-,  di-^ij-atrd 
look  which  writes  certain  wrinkles  in  a  young  man's 
face,  overwritten  in  his  by  outer  smiles,  which  could 
not  hide  the  truth  from  a  -ii-ccrning  eye.  I  asked  my- 
self if  I  could  justifv  in v  course  in  keejt'mir  silence  about 
what  I  had  seen;  it  was  my  plainest  duty  to  inform 
Mr.  Argyll,  not  only  on  hi.-  account,  but  on  James'  also. 
Such  a  knowledge,  coming  to  his  uncle,  though  it  would 
be  terribly  mortifying  to  his  m-plu-w,  might  be  the 
means  of  breaking  his  nev.  tetters  of  habit  before  they 
were  riveted  upon  him.  Such,  I  felt,  was  my  duty.  At 

;ue  time,  I  shrunk  from  it,  as  a  person  sitn.-i' 
I  was  naturally  would  >himk  ;  I  was  liable  to  have  my 
motives  misconstrued  ;  to  have  it  hint. -d  that  self  inter- 
est was  prompting  me  to  place*  James  in  a  bad  light. 

No,  I  Couldn't  do  it  !      For  flu-    hundredth  time  I   c.ime 

in  this  conclusion,  against  the  higlu-r  voice  of  the  ab- 
solute right.  I  was  glad  to  -.tivngihi-n  myself  in  my 
\ve.ikeourse  by  rcmembciing  that  Mr.  Hurton  had  re- 

1  my  silence,  and  that  I  was  not  at  liber 
betray  his  confidence.  Looking  at  him,  thinking 
things,  with  my  thoughts  more  in  my  eyes  than 


THROWING   DOWN   THE    GAUNTLET.  161 

ought  to  have  been  had  I  been  on  my  guard,  James 
suddenly  looked  up  and  encountered  my  gaze.  He 
pushed  the  board  aside  with  an  angry  motion,  which 
overthrew  half  the  men  and  entirely  disconcerted  the 
game. 

"  Well,  how  do  you  like  my  looks,  Richard  ?"  the 
defiant  eyes  glittering  with  a  will  which  overpowered 
my  own,  smiling  a  deadly  smile  which  threatened  me. 

"  How  peevish  you  are,  James!  I  believe  you  threw 
up  the  game  because  you  saw  I  was  checkmating  you," 
cried  his  cousin. 

"  That's  it,  my  dear  child  ;  I  never  would  allow  my- 
self to  be  checkmated !" 

"  Then  you  shouldn't  play !" 

"  Oh,  sometimes  I  allow  women  to  win  the  game ; 
but  when  I  play  with  men,  I  never  give  up.  The  man 
who  attempts  the  chances  with  me  must  prepare  for 
defeat." 

"  How  generous  you  are  to  the  witless  sex,"  said 
Mary,  sarcastically.  "I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  that 
you  sometimes  allow  us  to  win.  Just  pickup  that  castle 
you  have  sent  tumbling  in  ruins,  if  you  please,  sir — 
and  don't  ask  me  to  play  chess  for  at  least  a  fortnight." 

I  perceived  a  threat  in  his  words  of  which  the  girl 
was  quite  innocent ;  he  was  throwing  down  the  gaunt- 
let to  me;  again  and  again  his  air,  his  words,  were  such 
that  I  could  put  no  other  construction  upon  them.  He 
was  determined  to  misunderstand  me — to  look  upon  me 
as  a  person  seeking  to  injure  him.  I  was  in  his  way — 
I  must  get  out  of  it.  This  was  the  manner  he  put  on 
to  me.  I  felt  that  night,  more  than  ever,  the  conviction 
that  my  connection  with  the  Argylls  was  about  to  be 
broken.  If  James  felt  thus  toward  me,  I  should  be  un- 
willing to  take  a  position  which  he  regarded  as  belong- 
ing, of  right,  to  himself.  Worse  than  all,  I  felt  that 
his  treacherous  nature  was  working  secretly  against  me, 


162  THE   DEAD  LETTER. 

and  that  his  efforts  had  already  told  upon  those  whose 
lore  and  respect  was  most  precious  to  me. 

Shortly  after,  I  took  my  leave ;  he  was  so  engrossed, 
with  his  back  toward  me,  looking  over  some  old  en- 
gravings, that  he  did  not  turn  to  say  good-ni<_rht.  My 
room  at  my  boarding-house  had  a  particularly  cheerless 
air  that  evening ;  I  felt  lonely  and  embittered.  My 
heart  ached  for  sympathy.  I  resolved  that,  if  a  part- 
nership was  not  offered  CD  New  YcarX  I  would  pro- 
pose a  visit  to  my  mother,  for  whose  love  and  cncour- 
agement  I  longed.  The  event  of  going  away,  too, 
would  give  Mr.  Argyll  the  opportunity  of  declaring 
himself  in  one  way  or  another. 

Lenore's  visit  was  a  decided  success — in  the  way,  too, 
which  I  had  hoped  for.  Her  fine  and  spiritual  nature 
was  drawn  toward  Eleanor  in  a  manner  which  made 
the  latter  love  her,  and  grow  to  feel  a  consolation  m 
the  touch  of  the  little  hand,  the  unsought  ki<s  and  the 
silent  sympathy  which  brought  the  child  to  sit  hours 
by  her  side,  saving  nothing,  l>nt  looking  with  wonder 
and  reverence  at  a  sorrow  too  deep  for  her  vomit;  heart 
to  fathom.  I.enore  frolicked  with  Mr.  Argyll,  chatted 
and  sung  with  Mary  ;  but  she  wax  always  ready  to  leave 
either  for  her  cjuiet  corner  by  Miss  Argyll.  Mary  pre- 
tended jealousy,  though  we  were  all  glad  to  see  the 
interest  Kleanor  took  in  the  child.  Oneofourgn 
pleasure*  was  in  Lenorc's  singing.  I  have  mentioned 
the  purity  and  great  compass  ..i  .  To  hear 

her  -ing  some  ot   i  IIIfM,  of  :\  Sabbath  twilight, 

was  nlmovt  to  obtain  a  glimpse  into  the  heaven  toward 
which  her  voice  soared.     I  saw  Kli-.-umr  «|iiietly 
ing  while  she  sung,  and   I  knew   the  music  wa-  loo-en- 
ing  the  tense  strain  upon  her  heart-chords. 

I  \\a^  interested  in  watching  two  things — first,  t he 
attachment  between  Miss  Argyll  and  I.en.,ie;  secondly, 
the  persistent  effort  of  James  to  overcome  his  first 


ge  .I&L 


FLOWERS    AND   FLATTERIES.  163 

aversion,  and  his  nltiraate  success.  By  the  second  day 
he  had  mastered  his  chagrin  at  the  evident  dislike  of 
the  child,  who  could  hardly  compel  herself  to  be  polite 
to  him,  and  who  grew  constrained  and  pale  whenever 
he  was  near  her.  James  Argyll  was  not  the  man  to 
allow  a  child  to  slight  him  with  impunity.  His  indo- 
lence was  a  repugnance  to  business  and  study ;  it  was 
no  weakness  of  the  will,  for  when  he  set  his  resolves 
upon  an  object,  he  usually  accomplished  it.  I  saw  that 
he  had  resolved  to  conquer  Lenore.  He  paid  court  to 
her  as  if  she  were  a  "  lady  of  the  land,"  instead  of  a 
little  girl ;  on  New  Year's  he  overwhelmed  her  with 
splendid  presents  ;  he  took  her  out  sleigh-riding  with 
him,  in  a  fancy  cutter,  which  he  declared  was  only  just 
large  enough  for  those  two,  with  chimes  of  silver  bells 
and  a  spirited  horse.  I  ought  not  to  have  felt  grieved 
that  Lenore,  also,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  proved 
faithless  to  me.  But  I  did.  I  was  more  hurt  by  her 
growing  indifference  to  me  and  her  increasing  fascina- 
tion for  James  than  the  subject  warranted.  I  should 
have  known  that  rides  and  dolls,  flowers  and  flatteries, 
and  a  dainty  little  ring  for  her  forefinger,  would  win 
any  little  maiden  of  eleven  ;  but  I  had  estimated  Le- 
nore's  character  higher.  I  had  noticed  her  attractions 
and  repulsions,  the  former  always  toward  noble  and 
true  persons — the  latter  toward  the  unworthy.  Now, 
however,  my  little  bird  was  charmed  by  the  serpent's 
eye ;  she  was  under  the  influence  of  James'  will,  and  I 
resigned  her. 


About  ten  days  after  my  visit  to  Mrs.  Scott,  I  kept 
my  promise  to  her,  by  returning  to  inquire  about  the 
present  condition  of  Moreland  villa.  I  saw,  as  soon  as 
I  entered  the  cottage,  that  her  mind  was  preyed  on  by 
the  same  convictions  which  had  troubled  her  on  tho 
former  occasion. 


164  THB   DEAD   LETTER. 

"  If  there  ain't  at  least  one  ghost  in  that  house,  then 
there  never  was  such  a  thing,  and  there  never  will  be — 
now!  You've  seen  for  yourself  there  ain't  a  human 
being  in  it — and  there  is  something  1  I've  seen  it  and 
heard  it,  and  you  can't  convince  a  person  against  them 
two  senses,  I  reckon." 

"  I  don't  want  to  convince  you,  Mrs.  Scott ;  I  only 
want  to  convince  myself  what  this  thing  is  which  y.m 
have  seen  and  heard.  Have  you  had  any  new  revela- 
tion- 

"I've  seen  the  death-light  once  since,  standing  over 
the  house ;  we  saw  it,  too,  shinin'  out  of  that  room — 
John  and  I  saw  that  together.  We  was  so  set  on  6nd- 
in*  out  whether  it  was  spirits  or  not,  we  mustered  up 
courage  to  go  through  tin-  house  a -/in  the  next  day, 
ami  as  sure  as  you're  settin'  there,  xnn,<thin<j  had  l>eeii 
back  and  laid  down  on  that  bed  ag'in — something  light, 
that  scarcely  made  a  dent  —you  needn't  tell  me  'twas 
any  human  mortal,  which  it  wasn't.  We've  heard 
children  cryin',  too,  which  is  an  evil  omen,  the  dream- 
book  says ;  an'  to  clap  the  climax,  Mr.  Kedfield,  t  i 
no  use  keepin'  it  back—  tr,  Yi?  seen  the  gh"*t  .r* 

I  was  now  as  intended   as  the  woman  could  d> 
she  had  stopped,  mysteriously,  after  making  this 
declaration,  and  sat  looking  me  in  the  eyes.     I  returned 
her  ga/.e  with  one  of  silent  imjuiry,  leaning  a  little  lop- 
ward    in  my  chair.     Mrs.   Scott    smoothed   her   :ipn>n 
absently,  with   her  large   hands,  still  looking  into  my 
eyes,  as  if  she  saw  the  ghost  in  their  distending  pupils. 
I  made  tip  my  mind  that   I  was  going    to   hear  either 
something  of  ridiculous  sh.ido\\yness  magnified  into  an 
apparition,  or  something  which    would    give   s,,me  tan- 
gible clue  to  the  mystery,  if  there  was   a   m\  >t« 
Mordant!  villa. 

"  You  have  been  fortunate,"  said  I.  "  What  was  it 
like,  pray  ?" 


THE    APPARITION.  165 

"  You've  noticed  there  was  a  little  balcony  under 
the  windows  of  Henry's  room  ?" 

"  I  know  there  is  such  a  balcony." 

"  It  was  there  we  saw  it.  You  know  how  bright 
the  nights  have  been  lately,  with  the  full  moon  and  the 
snow.  John  und  I  walked  out,  night  before  last,  to  the 
front  of  the  villa,  to  see  what  we  could  see — and  there 
it  was !  It  was  as  light  as  day,  and  we  both  had  a 
good  look  at  it.  I  don't  know  how  long  it  might  have 
stayed  if  I  hadn't  screamed.  John  clapped  his  hand 
over  my  mouth  to  stop  me,  but  he  was  too  late ;  it  sort 
of  riz  right  up  and  disappeared." 

"  But  what  was  it  like — man,  woman,  or  child  ?" 

"  It  was  like  a  ghost,  I  tell  you,"  replied  the  house- 
keeper, stoutly.  "  I  s'pose  sperits  are  dressed  purty 
much  alike  in  the  next  world,  whether  they're  men  or 
women.  We  read  in  the  Bible  of  the  white  robes — 
and  I've  never  heard  of  a  spook  that  was  dressed  in 
any  other  way.  It  may  have  been  Henry  in  his  shroud, 
for  all  I  know — that's  what  I  believe  it  was — there 
now !" 

"  Henry  was  never  dressed  in  a  shroud,"  I  answered, 
gravely ;  "  he  was  buried  in  a  black-broadcloth  suit. 
So  you  see  that  you  were  not  correct  there." 

"  Oh,  well,  Mr.  Redfield,  we  can't  understand  these 
things — it  isn't  given  to  us.  I  can  tell  you  what  John 
and  I  saw,  and  you  can  make  up  your  own  mind. 
There  was  a  shape,  on  the  balcony,  standing  straight 
up,  white  all  over.  A  long  white  garment  hung  from 
its  head  to  its  feet ;  its  face  was  turned  up  to  the  moon, 
and  its  arms  were  raised  as  if  it  prayed.  It's  eyes  was 
wide  open,  and  it's  face  as  pale  as  a  corpse's.  John 
and  I  will  both  make  our  affydavit  to  it,  in  court,  if 
it's  necessary." 

"  Where  did  it  go  to  when  it  disappeared  ?" 

"  It  seemed  to  me  to  turn  into  the  air ;  but  that  I 


166  THE    DEAD    LETTER. 

wouldn't  be  so  sure  about.  John  thought  it  went 
right  through  the  side  of  the  hoi 

"  Was  the  window  open  behind  it  ?" 

"Wai,  reallv  now,  I  wouldn't  swear  that  it  was,  or 
wasn't.  The  fact  i-.  I  \\  :i-  so  scaart  the  minit  I  saw  it, 
I  like  to  have  dropped.  John  was  for  staying  *  to  see 
if  it  wouldn't  come  ag'in,'  but  I  wouldn't  let  him,  so 
we  both  cut  and  run." 

44 1  am  sorry  you  didn't  use  your  eyes  to  better  ad- 
vantage.'" 

••  When  you  see  a  thing  like  that,  I  reckon  you'll  run, 
too.  It  ain't  at  all  likely  the  window  was  open,  or  we 
would  have  noticed  it.  It  was  all  shut  up  the  next 
mornin',  the  same  as  ever." 

44  That  was  yesterday.  I  suppose  you  have  not  been 
in  the  villa  since  ?" 

44  Lord !  no,  sir.  I  wouldn't  go  now  for  a  hundred 
dollars." 

%-  Have  you  noticed  any  thing  else  peculiar  ?" 

44  Yes,  sir.  There's  been  footsteps  around  the  house 
in  the  snow." 

44  ludeed  ?"  I  said,  eagerly ;  "  that  is  more  like  some- 
thing. Can  I  see  them  now  ?" 

"  N.I,  sir;  the  sun's  melted  Ym  all  off.  But  if  you 
think  they're  the  tracks  of  persons  eomin'  about  the 
house  for  any  purp<>M>,  just  tell  me,  will  you,  sir,  how 
they  happened  to  be  just  about  the  porch,  and  so  on, 
and  not  a  track  to  it,  nor  away  from  it,  in  no  direc- 
tion?" 

44  Indeed,  I  can  not  explain  it,  until  I've  rooted  out 
the  mystery  from  the  beginning." 

44  Nor  it  can't  be  explained,"  cried  the  housekeeper, 
triumphantly. 

It  worried  her  to  think  I  was  no  skeptical  when  she 
had  given  such  absolute  proofs;  the  i«le;i  of  tin-  haunted 
villa  waa  making  her  really  sick,  yet  she  would  not 


PONDERING.  167 

give  up  her  cherished  belief  in  its  being  haunted.  I 
think  she  would  have  been  disappointed  if  any  one 
had  come  forward  'and  sworn  himself  the  ghost. 

I  sat  a  little  while  pondering  her  statements.  There 
had  been  nothing,  on  the  former  occasion,  to  convince 
me  that  any  intruder,  human  or  spiritual,  had  been  in 
the  villa — except  the  shadowy  imprint  of  a  form  on 
Henry's  bed,  and  for  the  proof  that  it  had  not  been 
made  before  the  house  was  cleaned  up,  I  had  nothing 
but  her  word.  As  for  the  death-light  and  the  wailing 
sounds,  I  conceived  that,  in  that  lonesome,  solitary 
place,  two  persons  of  the  class  to  which  these  belonged, 
with  their  excited  imaginations  reacting  upon  each 
other,  might  easily  persuade  themselves  of  such  mai1- 
vels.  Even  in  this  last  statement,  that  both  of  them 
had  clearly  and  distinctly  seen  a  white  form  on  the 
balcony  of  the  room,  I  did  not  find  much  to  disturb 
me.  There  is  nothing  better  for  producing  all  kinds  of 
shapes  and  phantoms  to  a  frightened  or  superstitious 
eye,  than  a  bright,  moonlight  night.  It  is  far  better 
than  the  deepest  darkness.  The  earth  is  full  of  weird 
shadows  ;  the  most  familiar  objects  take  on  an  unnat- 
ural appearance  in  the  gleaming  rays,  enhanced  in 
their  strange  effect  by  the  black,  fantastic  shadows 
which  stretch  away  from  them.  Add  to  this,  a  gar- 
ment of  snow  spread  over  every  thing.  .The  landscape 
on  which  we  have  rested  our  gaze,  every  day,  for  years, 
under  these  circumstances  will  be  as  novel  to  us,  as  if 
it  were  a  bit  of  scenery  transplanted  from  some  strange 
and  far  country.  A  vivid  fancy,  predisposed  to  the 
work,  can  make  an  excellent  ghost  out  of  a  rose-bush 
or  a  fence-post — a  fearful  apparition  out  of  the  shadow 
of  a  cornice  heaped  with  snow.  In  the  present  case, 
not  only  were  the  man  and  his  wife  in  that  feverish 
state  in  which  the  eye  makes  visions  for  itself,  but  they 
were  quite  ready  to  link  such  phantoms  with  Henry's 


168  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

room,  which  they  had  previously  decreed  to  be  the  fa- 
vorite abode  of  the  ghost.  A  review  of  the  whole 
case  led  me  rather  to  be  vexed  with  them,  than  satisfied 
there  was  any  reason  for  the  mental  "stew"  into  which 
they  had  heated  themselves.  The  only  tangible  things 
of  the  whole  medley  were — the  footprints.  If  there 
were  actually  traces  of  feet  walking  about  the  prem- 
ises, that  was  enough  to  satisfy  me — not  of  a  gh»vt, 
but  of  a  person,  engaged  in  prying  about  the  villa  for 
some  unlawful  purpose.  I  made  up  my  miml  to  watch 
for  this  person,  and  entrap  him.  It  occurred  to  me,  at 
once,  that  one  of  those  dare-devil  spirits,  to  be  found 
in  every  community,  w:is  purposely  ircttini:  up  scenic 
effects  on  the  premises,  for  thcamu>cmeni  of  spreading 
the  report  that  the  villa  was  haunted,  and  exciting  the 
gossip  and  credulity  of  the  village.  I  was  indignant 
at  the  heartlessness  of  the  plan,  and  resolved,  should  I 
catch  the  perpetrator,  to  inflict  such  summary  eh 
ment,  as  would  cure  him  of  his  taste  for  practical 
joking.  The  assertion  of  the  woman  that  th-  : 
began  and  ended  nowhere — that  no  one  had  approached 
the  house,  because  there  were  no  footsteps  coming  in 
from  any  direction— did  not  receive  entire  credit  from 
me.  Were  that  actually  the  case,  then,  it  wa>  p.^iiive 
evidence  that  the  person  was  secreted  in  the  dwelling — 
an  idea  foolish  and  incredible  on  the  face  of  it,  for 
many  reasons. 

However,  I  was  in  earnest,  now,  about  the  matter; 
I  would  ascertain  the  truth  or  explode  the  falsehood, 
and  make  an  end  of  it,  before  painful  reports  should 
reach  the  ears  of  friends,  or  every  idle  ragamuffin  in 
the  country  make  that  hallowed  place,  consecrated  by 
the  tics  and  memories  of  the  one  now  gone,  the  focus 
of  his  vulgar  curiosity. 

**  Where  is  your  husband  ?" 

"  He's  sortin'  pertaters,  or  tyin'  up  seeds,  in  the  loft." 


RATS.  169 

"  Please  call  him  down,  and  give  me  the  keys  of  the 
house." 

The  gardener  came,  following  very  reluctantly,  at  my 
bidding,  while  I  again  entered  the  villa,  and  went  over 
every  room,  stationing  him  in  the  hall,  so  that  no  one 
could  possibly  escape  during  my  visit  to  the  lower  and 
upper  floors.  I  searched  from  cellar  to  garret,  while 
Mrs.  Scott,  with  her  pale-blue  eyes  wide  open,  and  af- 
fecting a  bustling  bravery  which  her  looks  belied,  ac- 
companied me.  Once,  at  a  sudden  noise,  she  seized  the 
skirts  of  my  overcoat,  but  resigned  them  when  I  told 
her  it  was  caused  by  John's  shutting  the  front  hall- 
door. 

"  Dear !  dear !  there's  rats  in  the  villa,  at  last !"  she 
exclaimed,  removing  the  cover  of  a  flour-barrel  which 
stood  in  the  store-room.  "  They've  been  in  this  flour ! 
I'm  sorry,  for  they're  an  awful  pest.  They'll  make 
trouble  if  I  don't  watch  'em  clost.  I  believe  I'll  pizen 
'em.  Mrs.  Moreland  told  me  to  take  this  flour  home 
and  use  it  up ;  but  we  haven't  needed  it  yet,  and  I've 
left  it  here,  and  now  they've  made  pretty  work  with  it." 

"  If  there  are  rats  here,  I  shan't  be  surprised  at  all 
kinds  of  noises,"  I  remarked.  "  Rats  are  equal  to  al- 
most any  thing.  They  will  tramp  like  an  army  of  men, 
or  stalk  like  a  solitary  burglar.  They  will  throw  down 
plates  and  cups — like  this  one,  broken  on  the  floor  here, 
since  we  came  here  last ;  muss  pillows  and  drag  books 
out  of  place.  You  really  will  have  to  keep  a  sharp 
lookout." 

"  They  won't  cry  like  a  child,  nor  moan  like  a  sick 
person,  nor  stand  on  balconies  dressed  in  shrouds !"  ob- 
served the  housekeeper. 

"  I  think  they  would  do  the  first  two,"  and  I  smiled, 
"  but  as  to  the  latter,  I'm  not  prepared  to  assert." 

"  I  reckon  not.  I  only  wish  you'd  seen  it,  Mr.  Red- 
field." 


170  THE  DBAD  LBTTEB. 

"  I  shall  stay  to-night  in  the  hope  of  that  pleasure, 
Mrs.  Scott." 

"  I'm  right  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,  sir.  It's  not 
pleasant  to  be  placed  in  the  situation  I  am — to  know 
what  I  know,  and  not  to  have  my  word  taken." 

It  was  true ;  it  could  not  be  pleasant  for  her  to  have 
her  earnest  statements  received  with  so  mm-h  skepti- 
cism ;  I  did  not  wonder  that  she  felt  hurt,  almost  ofl'cnd- 
ed;  at  the  same  time  I  felt  as  if  I,  in  my  turn,  should 
be  intensely  aggravated  if  I  found  out  there  was  no- 
thing in  all  this  flurry. 

This  second  search  resulted  in  nothing,  like  the  first. 
It  was  nearly  dark  when  we  returned  to  the  cotta-e, 
where  Mrs.  Scott  allowed  me  to  dandle  her  fat,  good- 
natured  baby,  Johnny,  while  she  prepared  tea  in  a  style 
befitting  the  important  occasion  of  "company." 

"  If  you're  in  earnest  about  sittin'  up  to  watch,  I'll 
make  coffee,  instid  of  tea,  if  it's  agreeable  to  you,  .Mr. 
Redfield.  It's  better  to  keep  one  awa! 

I  assented  to  this  assertion,  being  of  a  similar  opin- 
ion myself.  She  set  her  litisl>:uul  to  •rrimlin^  the  de- 
lectable berry  in  a  hand-mill,  and  soon  an  excellent  sup- 
per,  with  cold  ham  and  hot  biscuits,  was  placed  upon 
tin-  table.  The  night  promised  to  be  elear  and  cold; 
the  moon  would  not  rise  until  about  eleven  ;  1  f.Ttitied 
myself  against  the  hard-hips  of  my  adventure  by  two 
CUp8  of  Strong  coffee,  \vith  :i  substantial  meal  ;  parsed 

nn  hour  or  two  chatting  with  the  couple  and  singing 
Johnny  to  sleep  ;  then,  about  eight  o'clock,  I  buttoned 
my  overcoat  close,  tied  my  muffler  about  my  neck,  and 
went  forth  to  begin  picket-duty. 

"I'll  leave th.  •  tin-  stove,  and  a  good  fin-," 

was  the  parting^  promise  of  the  good  woman,  ^ho 
seemed  to  think  I  had  rather  a  solemn  time  before  me. 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Scott ;  if  I  make  no  discoveries 
by  one  or  two  o'clock,  I  shall  come  in  to  warm  myself, 


A   LONG   WATCH.  171 

and  give  up  the  hope  for  this  occasion.  You  know  mid- 
night is  the  witching-hour — it  will  be  useless  to  stay 
much  later." 

"  The  Lord  be  with  you,"  she  said,  earnestly. 

Armed  with  a  stout  walking-stick,  with  which  I  in- 
tended to  inflict  punishment  upon  any  intruder  of  earth- 
ly mold,  I  walked  out  on  the  lawn,  taking  such  a  survey- 
as  I  could  in  the  dim  light ;  like  the  rain  in  the  child- 
ren's riddle,  I  went  "  round  and  round  the  house,"  and 
finally  took  station  on  the  front  porch,  where  I  walked 
softly  back  and  forth,  listening  fbr  sounds  within  and 
without.  I  heard  and  saw  nothing.  The  long  hours 
slipped  sloAvly  away.  Just  before  moonrise  the  dark- 
ness seemed  to  deepen,  as  it  does  before  dawn.  My  in- 
tention was  to  take  up  some  position  on  the  lawn, 
where,  unseen  myself,  I  could  command  the  approaches 
to  the  villa,  and  also  have  a  view  of  Henry's  room, 
with  the  balcony.  It  was  time  now  to  secrete  myself, 
before  the  approaching  moon  should  reveal  me  to  the 
person  or  persons  who  might  themselves  be  on  the 
watch.  Accordingly,  I  selected  a  seat  on  the  little  rus- 
tic bench,  completely  encircled  with  bushy  evergreens, 
which  not  only  concealed  my  person,  but  afforded  me 
considerable  protection  from  the  cold.  I  can  not,  to 
this  day,  breathe  the  pungent  odor  of  the  spicy  trees, 
without  recalling  the  experiences  of  that  night.  A 
silence,  like  that  which  Dr.  Kane  speaks  of  as  one  of 
the  most  impressive  features  of  the  long  Arctic  night, 
brooded  around ;  over  against  the  hills  came  gradually 
stealing  the  silvery  luster  of  the  rising  moon,  while  the 
valleys  yet  lay  in  profoundest  gloom  ;  the  dimly  glim- 
mering stretches  of  snow  broadened  into  whiter  fields  ; 
the  picturesque  villa,  with  its  turrets  and  porches  and 
pointed  roof,  stood  black  and  quiet  before  me.  I  could 
hear  a  dog  barking  afar  off,  as  it  were  some  dream-dog 
barking  in  some  dream-world.  I  had  almost  forgotten 


172  THE   DEAD  LETTER. 

the  cause  of  my  being  there,  at  that  strange  hour,  in 
that  lone  spot,  gazing  at  that  dark  mass  of  building, 
empty  of  life  and  warmth  as  was  ht-r  heart  of  joy  or 
hope  ;  the  intense  cold,  the  odor  of  the  pines  and  hem- 
lock, the  trance  of  thought  into  which  I  had  fallen, 
were  benumbing  me. 

Suddenly  I  saw  a  shapeless  and  shadowy  brightness 
hovering  amid  those  dark  turret*.  It  was  the  death- 
light  of  which  Mrs.  Scott  had  told  me.  A  warm  thrill 
ran  through  my  fingers  and  toes,  arousing  me-  to  the 
keenest  consciousness.  I  watched  it  flutter  and  move 
— stand  still — flutter  again — and  disappear.  It  la-ted 
perhaps  three  minutes.  In  that  time  I  had  made  up 
my  mind  as  to  the  mysterious  appearance — it  was  the 
light  of  a  lamp  or  candle  being  carried  about  in  a  per- 
son's hand.  That  was  what  it  nm-t  iv-rmbled  ;  but 
who  carried  it,  and  how  was  the  reflection  thrown  tftcre^ 
over  the  roof?  There  was  certainly  a  iiiy-tn  \  about 
this  which,  had  I  been  at  all  superstitious,  or  cv  en  nerv- 
ous, would  have  unfitted  me  for  any  further  cool  investi- 
gation. I  resolved  that  if  I  could  not  master  the 
man-el  then,  I  would  do  it  by  the  light  of  day.  I 
watched  intently,  hoping  it  would  reappear,  and  give 
me  some  glimpse  of  its  origin.  While  I  waited,  a  ray 
of  light  pierced  through  the  shutters  of  Henry's  room. 
I  will  acknowledge  that  for  one  single  instant  the 
hand  of  the  dead  seemed  laid  on  my  heart ;  it  turned 
cold,  and  refused  to  beat.  The  next,  I  smiled  grimly 
at  myself.  I  had  never  been  a  moral  or  physical  cow- 
ard. The  solution  of  the  mystery  was  now  in  my  gra-p, 
and  I  had  no  idea  of  letting  it  slip.  I  was  confident 
that  some  person  was  playing  the  mi-chief  in  the  de- 
serted house;  but  if  I  had  really  expecte.l  to  confront 
the  inhabitants  of  another  world,  I  should  not  have 
hesitated.  The  key  of  the  main  entrance  was  in  my 
pocket ;  I  walked  swiftly  to  the  house,  unlocked  the 


A   VAIN   QUEST.  173 

door  as  softly  as  possible,  and  grasping  my  stick  firmly 
in  my  hand,  sprung  up  the  stairs.  It  was  quite  dark 
in  the  house,  although  it  was  now  light  out  of  doors ; 
in  my  haste,  I  hit  my  foot  against  a  chair  at  the  bottom 
of  the  stairs,  and  ovei'threw  it.  I  was  provoked,  for  I 
wished  to  come  upon  these  midnight  prowlers  unawares. 
Knowing  just  where  the  room  Avas  situated,  I  went  di- 
rectly toward  it ;  it  was  very  dark  in  the  upper  passage, 
all  the  blinds  being  closed  ;  I  groped  for  the  handle  of 
the  door — something  rustled,  something  stirred  the  air 
— I  flung  the  door  open.  There  was  no  light  in  it.  All 
was  dark  and  silent.  Before  I  could  fling  the  shutter 
open,  letting  in  a  peaceful  flood  of  silver  moonlight,  my 
hope  of  detecting  the  intruder  was  almost  at  an  end. 
I  was  certain  that  something  had  passed  me  in  the  ob- 
scurity of  the  hall  ;  I  had  been  conscious  of  that  subtle 
magnetism  which  emanates  from  a  human  form,  per- 
ceived in  the  blackest  night.  It  might  be  the  magnetism 
of  soul  instead  of  body,  and  a  disembodied  spirit  might 
have  sent  the  same  electric  current  through  me.  At  all 
events,  I  had  now  nothing  for  my  labor.  I  did  not 
think  that  another  journey  over  the  house  would  result 
in  any  discovery,  since  the  warning  had  been  given ;  1 
had  no  lamp  or  lantern  with  me  ;  I  reluctantly,  after 
lingering  and  listening  some  time  in  vain,  closed  the 
room  and  the  house,  and  returned  to  the  cottage,  where 
I  drank  the  coffee  which  awaited  me,  laid  down  on  a 
buffalo-robe  before  the  stove,  and  slept  away  my  vex- 
ation. 

I  was  not  very  communicative  as  to  my  adventures 
when  eagerly  questioned  by  my  entertainers  the  follow- 
ing morning.  They  were  satisfied,  by  my  very  reti- 
cence, that  I  had  seen  something  to  puzzle  me,  and 
were  both  alarmed  and  triumphant.  In  answer  to  their 
inquiries,  which  they  were  too  respectful  to  press,  I 
assured  them  that  I  had  reason  to  think,  with  them,  that 


174  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

the  villa  required  attention.  I  had  not  been  able  to 
satisfy  myself  who  was  disturbing  the  premises  ;  but 
that  I  should  not  rest  until  I  knew.  I  should  return 
that  night  and  sloop  in  tho  villa  ;  I  wi-hcd  1<>  ontor  it 
very  quietly,  probably  before  dark,  so  a^  n«>t  t<>  alarm 
tho  inmate  or  inmates;  and  I  was  confident  that  I 
should  thus  be  able  to  pounce  upon  the  ghost.  Mr-. 
Scott  rei_rarded  mo  with  admirim:  a\vo. 

"She  wouldn't  go  for  to  sloop  in  that  house  alone  for 
all  the  riches  of  Solomon,"  and  wouldn't.  1,  at  least, 
provide  myself  with  pi-toK  ': 

When  I  wont  into  Mr.  Argyll's  oiliee  that  morning, 
he  greeted  mi-  with  marked  coldiu— .  At  last  I  eould 
not  conceal  from  myself  that,  not  only  had  his  manner 
changed,  but  that  he  wished  me  to  tool  that  it  had.  Hi- 
gave  me,  as  I  entered,  a  searching,  su-pioious  glance, 
saying,  "Good-morning,  Uiohard."  in  the  most  formal 
tone.  Nothing  further.  I  took  uji  a  book,  hilling  my 
pain  and  embarrassment  in  an  attempt  to  road  ;  but  inv 
mind  was  not  on  the  lo'_jal  difficulties  expounded  there- 
in :  I  was  wondering  at  the  causes  "I"  tho  situation  in 
which  I  found  myself.  A  hanger-on  !  yes  an  unwel- 
come hanirer-on  in  an  office  whore  I  no  longer  had  any 
conceded  rights— in  a  home  where  I  was  no  longer 
trusted. 

"  lias  Mr.  Argyll  placed  a  spy  on  m\  Does 

ho  know  already  that  I  was  out  the  entire  night  ?  and 
me  before  he  has  an  explanation':"  I 
a-ke'l  niVM'lt',  indignantly.  "  If  ho  thinks  I  am  forming 
bail  habits,  doing  wrong  in  any  respect.  \\  i 
not  remon>trate  with  me — give  me  a  chance  to  defend 
mys, 

I  had  intended  to  take  his  advice  in  the  matter  of 
the  haunted  house;  but  HOW  I  sat,  an -TV  and  silent, 
feeling,  oh,  so  wounded  and  forlorn.  I  did  not  stay 
long  in  the  office ;  going  to  my  room,  I  wrote  a  long 


A   DEATHLESS   KESOLVE.  175 

letter  to  my  mother,  telling  her  I  should  come  soon  to 
pay  her  the  visit  which  should  have  been  sooner  made 
had  I  not  been  engrossed  with  the  duty  to  which  I  had 
vowed  myself. 

Yes !  I  had  pledged  my  own  heart  to  devote  myself 
.to  the  discovery  of  Henry  Moreland's  murderer ;  and 
if  Eleanor  herself  had  put  her  foot  on  that  heart,  and 
crushed  it  yet  more,  I  do  not  know  that  I  should  have 
held  my  vow  absolved. 

I  should  not  have  gone  to  the  mansion  that  day,  had 
not  a  message  been  sent,  late  in  the  afternoon,  that  Mr. 
Burton  had  arrived,  and  expected  me  to  meet  him  at 
tea.  I  went ;  and  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  little  Le- 
nore  enthroned  by  the  side  of  James,  who  attended 
upon  her  as  if  she  were  a  princess,  and  of  being  treated 
with  bare  civility  by  all  save  Mr.  Burton.  Miss  Argyll 
was  ill,  and  did  not  come  down. 

I  saw  the  observant  eye  of  Mr.  Burton  watching  the 
intimacy  between  his  daughter  and  her  new  friend  ; 
whether  he  was  pleased  or  not,  I  could  not  decide  ;  the 
eye  which  read  the  secret  thoughts  of  other  men  did 
not  always  betray  its  own  impressions.  I  was  certain, 
too,  that  he  observed  the  change  in  the  demeanor  of 
the  family  toward  me,  and  my  own  constrained  manner. 


176  TUB    DEAD   LETTER. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

THE   NIGHT   IN    MORELAXD   VILLA. 

MR.  BURTON'S  arrival  prevented  ray  fulfilling  the  in- 
tention of  sleeping  ;>t  Moreland  vill.-i  that  night;  I  im- 
mediately resolved  to  defer  my  explorations  until  he 
could  keep  me  company.  The  next  day  he  came  to  my 
room,  and  \ve  had,  as  usual  when  we  met,  a  long  talk 
over  things  past,  present  and  to  come.  I  did  not  in- 
troduce the  subject  of  the  mystery  at  the  villa  until  we 
had  discussed  many  other  matters.  My  companion  was 
preoccupied  with  important  business  of  his  own — the 
same  which  had  taken  him  to  Host  CM  ;  l>ut  his  in1 
was  pledged,  alm<»t  as  earnestly  as  mine,  t<>  unmask 
the  criminal  of  the  lilankville  tragedy,  and  any  refer- 
ence to  that  sad  subject  was  sure  to  secure  his  atten- 
tion. Baffled  we  acknowledged  ourselves,  as  we  talked 
together  that  morning,  but  not  discouraged.  Mr.  I>ur- 
ton  told  me  that  he  W88  on  the  track  of  two  live-hun- 
dred-dollar bills  of  the  Park  Hank,  which  had  left  the 
city  the  \\eek  after  the  murder,  tak'mi:  widcly-ditfcrciit 
flights ;  there  had  one  come  back  from  St.  Louis,  W!I.>M> 
course  his  agents  were  tracing.  As  for  the  sewing-girl, 
she  had  the  power  of  vanishing  utterly,  like  a  light 
extinguished,  leaving  no  trace  behind,  and  her  pin 
literally  in  the  dark.  This  comparison  of  the  drti-ctive 
reminded  me  of  the  curious  light  which  had  led  me, 
like  a  Jack-o'-lantern,  into  a  «|iiagmire  of  uncertainty  ; 
I  was  about  to  bct_rin  my  account  of  it,  when  In 
ne  of  those  peculiar  piercing  looks  of  his,  sa;. 

"  You  have  not   yet   entered    into   the   content) 
partnership?" 

"  No,  Mr.  Burton;  and  1  hardly  think  now  that  I  shall." 


MR.   BURTON    EXCITED.  ,     177 

There  was  some  bitterness  in  my  tone ;  he  evinced 
no  surprise,  asking,  simply, 

"Why?" 

"  I  think  James  has  been  chosen  to  fill  the  place." 

"  But,  he  has  not  been  admitted  to  the  bar." 

"  He  is  studying  a  little  recently ;  probably  in  order 
to  pass  an  examination." 

"  The  wind  is  changing,"  said  Mr.  Burton,  speaking 
like  the  old  gentleman  in  Bleak  House.  "  I  see  how 
the  land  lies.  The  goodly  and  noble  Argyll  ship  is 
driving  on  to  the  rocks.  Mark  my  words,  she  will  go  to 
pieces  soon !  you  will  see  her  ruins  sti-ewing  the  shore." 

"  I  pray  heaven  to  avert  your  prophecy.  I  hope  not 
to  live  to  see  any  such  sight." 

"  How  can  it  be  otherwise  ?"  he  exclaimed,  rising 
and  pacing  to  and  fro  through  my  little  room,  like  a 
caged  elephant.  "  A  spendthrift  and  a  gambler — a  man 
like  that — about  to  have  the  helm  put  in  his  hands  ! 
But  it's  none  of  my  business — none  of  my  business ; 
nor  much  yours,  either." 

"  It  is  mine  !"  I  cried ;  "  I  can  not  help  but  make  it 
mine,  as  if  these  girls  were  my  sisters,  and  Mr.  Argyll 
my  father.  Yet,  as  you  say — it  is,  indeed,  nothing  to 
me.  They  will  not  allow  it  to  be !" 

I  drooped  my  head  on  my  arms  ;  my  own  loss  and 
disappointment  were  receding  into  the  background  be- 
fore the  idea  of  their  possible  discomfiture.  I  was 
startled  by  the  detective  bringing  his  clenched  hand 
down  upon  the  table  with  a  blow  which  shook  it ;  he 
was  standing,  looking  not  at  me,  but  at  the  wall,  as  if 
he  saw  some  one  before  him,  invisible  to  me. 

"  James  Argyll  is  a  singular  man — a  singular  man ! 
A  person  ought  to  be  a  panther  in  cunning  and  strength 
to  cope  with  him.  By  George,  if  I  don't  lookout,  he'll 
overreach  me  yet — with  that  will  of  his.  I  see  every- 
body about  me  succumbing.  He's  having  the  game  all 
8* 


178  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

in  his  own  hands.    By  the  way,  Rodfield,  I  was  a  little 
surprised  to  see  Lenore  so  fond  of  him." 

"Why  so,  Mr.  Burton?  James  is  an  attractive,  ele- 
gant young  man;  he  has  never  hail  any  lack  of  ad- 
mirers. It  would  rather  have  been  strange  if  your 
daughter  had  not  fancied  him.  He  has  been  very  good 
to  her." 

u  He  has,  indeed;  I'm  sure  I  ought  to  be  greatly 
obliged  to  all  of  you.     Did  I  ever  tell'you  that  I  place 
great  confidence    in  Lenore' s   intuitive  perception  of 
character?     You  know  that  I   have  a  remarkable  gift 
that  way  myself.     When  I  meet  people,  I  seem  ' 
their  minds,  and  not  their  bodies — I  can't  help  it.  Well, 
I've  remarked  the  same  tiling  in  my  child.     She  is  so 
young  and  inexperienced   that  she  can  not  explain  her 
own   impressions;  she    has  her   instantaneous   partiali- 
.tiid  I  have  noticed  that  she  leans  toward  true  na- 
-  like  a   flower   toward   the   li;_:ht,   and  away   from 
the  false  as  if  they  were  shadows.    I  hardly  exp. 
uld  be  so  intimate  with  young  Argyll." 

I  remembered  the  curious  effect  his  first  address  had 
made  upon  her ;  but  I  did  not  repeat  it  to  her  father. 
M-n-itivc  about  appearing  in  any  manner  jealous 
of  James;  it'  he  could  win  my  friends  from  me,  c\ni 
that  little  tjirl  whom  I  had  loved  for  her  pure  sweet- 
ness, let  them  go!  I  was  too  proud  to  solicit  them  to 
recon-ider  their  opinions. 

"  Do  you  know,"  continued  my  companion,  "  he  is 
performing  a  marvel  with  my  little  I.,i, ,.:,.-  lie  has 
gained  a  great  ascendancy  over  her  in  tln-M-  ten  d:i\s. 
This  morning,  for  a  purpose  which  \<m  will  reali/e  I 
qOUsidcrcd  highly  important,  I  endi-a\  ..red.  alone  with 
her  in  my  oun  apartment,  to  place  her  in  the  clair\o\- 
ant  ri  the  first  time.  I  failed.  Her  mind  is 

no  longer  a  pellucid   minor,   relict-tin^   truths   without 
color  or  refraction.     She  U  under  the  iniluence  of  a 


PREPARATIONS.  179 

counter-will,  as  strong  as  my  own — and  mine  moves 
mountains,"  he  added,  with  a  laugh. 

"  I  shouldn't  think  you  would  like  it." 

"  I  don't ;  but  she  is  going  home  to-morrow.'  I  will 
tell  you  why  I  wished  to  procure  Lenore's  aid  again. 
I  have  succeeded  in  tracing  Leesy  Sullivan  to  this  vil- 
lage. She  came  here  the  day  after  we  frightened  her 
from  Brooklyn — that  is,  she  got  off  the  cars  at  a  little 
station  about  six  miles  from  here,  not  daring  to  land 
at  this  depot,  and,  I  have  no  doubt,  started  on  foot  for 
Blankville,  coining  here  in  the  night." 

"  That  aunt  of  hers  is  in  the  work,"  I  exclaimed. 
"  "We  are  justified  in  taking  any  step  to  compel  her  to 
own  up  where  she  conceals  that  girl." 

"  I  am  convinced  that  her  aunt  knows  nothing  what- 
ever about  her.  Has  Mrs.  Scott  kept  a  shai-p  lookout 
at  the  villa  ?" 

"  She  has  not  seen  her  since  that  first  day  ;  and  I  be- 
lieve it  would  be  difficult  for  her  to  set  her  foot  on  the 
place  without  being  discovered,  for  the  woman  has  got 
it  into  her  head  that  the  place  is  haunted,  and  she  is  on 
guard  night  and  day." 

"  Haunted  ?" 

Mr.  Burton  sat  down  and  drew  up  his  chair  with  an 
appearance  of  interest,  which  led  me  to  recount  our 
experiences  at  the  villa,  and  my  intention  of  completing 
my  researches  that  night,  in  his  company,  if  he  had  no 
objection.  He  said,  "  Of  course ;  it  would  give  him 
pleasure  ;  he  liked  nothing  better  than  an  adventure  of 
the  kind." 

In  fact,  the  idea  evidently  pleased  him  immensely  ; 
his  face  brightened,  and  after  that,  for  the  rest  of  the 
day,  for  the  first  time  in  our  brief  acquaintance,  I  saw 
him  a  little  flurried  and  expectant.  One  of  his  mottoes 
was:. 


'  Learn  to  labor,  and  to  wait.'" 


180  THE   DEAD   LETTEH. 

His  was  one  of  those  minds  which  would  have  kept 
silence  Beven  years,  rather  than  speak  a  moment  too 
soon;  he  was  seldom  in  a  hurry,  no  matter  what  \\  as 
at  stake;  but  the  fancy  for  lying  perdu  in  a  haunted 
house,  to  "  nab"  a  ghost,  was  a  novelty  in  his  detective 
experience,  which  inwardly  amused  him. 

He  smiled  to  himself  more  than  onee  during  the  in- 
tervening hours.  As  soon  as  tea  was  over,  we  excused 
ourselves  to  the  family,  kissed  Lenore,  and,  saying  that 
Mr.  Burton  would  stay  with  me  all  night,  we  took  our 
departure.  I  left  the  eonduet  of  the  proceedings  in  his 
hands.  When  we  reached  the  cottage.  we  found  Mrs. 
Scott  disposed  to  regard  the  non-fulfillment  of  my  en- 
gagement on  the  previous  night  as  proof  that  1  was 
frightened  from  the  j»iir>uit  :  >lie  accepted  my  excuse, 
however,  and  highly  approved  of  my  ha\ing  a  compan- 
ion in  the  spiritual  dangers  which  I  was  altout  to  en- 
counter. She  made  us,  moreover,  some  of  her  excellent 
coffee,  to  aid  us  in  keeping  awake,  and  gave  us  her 
players  for  our  protection  along  with  the  keys  of  the 
house. 

"  Treat  a  ghost  as  you  would  any  other  burglar," 
said  my  companion,  as  we  approached  the  villa,  in  the 
darkness,  by  the  back  entrance.  "Steal  a  march  on 
him  if  you  can." 

It  was  a  wild  night  for  an  enterprise  like  ours.  It 
reminded  me  of  that  night  upon  which  Henry  More- 
laud  was  murdered.  One  of  those  sudden  changes  in 
the  weather,  common  to  our  climate,  had  Ken  n-.-ms. 
piring  through  the  day,  and  n..w  the  warm,  wild  wind 
which  brings  in  the  ''January  thaw,"  was  blowing 

»ut  the  place,  Baking   every  loose  board  creak,  and 

u  'ig  the  bare  brandies  of  the  trees  against  each 
:T  with  a  grating  sound.  Black  clouds,  with  ragged 
edges,  sknrried  along  the  air,  with  the  large  stars  look- 
ing down  between,  with  wide,  bright  eyes,  as  of  f«-ar. 


WATTING   IK   THE    DABKNESS.  181 

While  we  stood  outside,  the  great  drops  began  to  pat- 
ter down  ;  and  presently  it  was  raining  violently,  as  it 
rained  that  night.  As  gently  as  if  he  were  a  robber 
making  a  felonious  entrance,  Mr.  Burton  turned  the 
key  in  the  lock  ;  we  entered  the  thick  darkness  of  the 
house,  closed  the  door,  and  stole  noiselessly,  I  taking 
the  lead,  along  the  stairs  and  corridors,  until  we  carae 
to  Henry's  room.  This  we  entered,  and,  finding  chairs, 
sat  down  upon  either  side  the  little  table  in  absolute 
silence.  But  we  might  safely  have  knocked  over  half 
the  furniture  without  giving  alarm  to  any  inmate — had 
there  been  an  inmate  of  the  room  or  villa — such  a  tre- 
mendous uproar  was  now  made  by  the  elements.  As 
the  rain  dashed  fitfully  against  the  windows,  and  the 
wind  shook  the  solitary  building,  I  was  nearly  over- 
powered with  the  memories  which  the  place  and  the 
storm  so  vivified.  I  was  in  a  fit  mood  to  become  a 
convert  to  a  nocturnal  specter — in  that  hour  of  gloom 
and  tempest,  under  the  roof  of  the  murdered,  the  ma- 
terial world  seemed  not  so  far  removed  from  the  awful 
and  shadowy  confines  of  the  spiritual,  as  it  appeared  in 
the  common  routine  of  daylight  life.  As  my  heart 
thumped  loudly  with  the  agitation  of  feelings  almost 
too  powerful  for  mortal  endurance,  I  was  glad  to  con- 
sider that  my  companion  was  cool,  calm  and  vigilant. 
He  had  no  such  memories  of  the  wind  and  rain  to 
overwhelm  him  as  I  had  ;  this  roof  was  not  the  roof 
of  his  friend — he  did  not  know  Eleanor. 

It  was  rather  impressive  to  the  dullest  imagination 
to  be  sitting  there  at  night,  in  that  empty  mansion,  in 
the  darkness,  with  the  storm  beating  around  it,  waiting 
for — we  knew  not  what.  To  me,  with  my  ardent  tem- 
perament, and  under  the  peculiar  circumstances,  it  was 
exciting  in  the  highest  degree. 

For  a  long  time  there  was  but  one  interruption  to  our  si- 
lent watch.  Mr.  Burton  leaned  over  the  table,  whispering, 


182  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

"  Did  you  hear  some  one  singing  ?" 

"  I  heard  nothing  but  the  \viiul,  and  the  creaking  of 
ft  tree  against  the  side  of  the  IIOIIM-.  except  the  rain, 
that  I  would  be  sure  of.  Hark!" 

I  did  think  I  heard  a  soft,  angelic  note  of  music  swell- 
ing in  the  air  above  me,  but  at  that  moment  the  tempest 
redoubled  its  clamor,  beating  out  all  lesser  sounds. 

"  Unless  I  am  mistaken,  there  was  a  human  voice," 
he  continued,  in  the  same  whisper. 

"  Or  a  heavenly  one,"  I  murmured. 

I  believe  Mr.  Burton  said  "nonsense!"  but  I  am  not 
certain.  Airain  there  was  a  loni:  interval  of  waiting  ; 
we  both  leaned  over  toward  each  other  at  the  same  in- 
stant, as  the  sound  of  something  shoved  overhead  at- 
tracted our  attentive  ears. 

"  It  is  rats  in  the  garret,"  said  I.  "Mrs.  Scott  says 
they  are  in  the  house." 

"I  hardly  think  it  was  rats  ;  but  we  will  wait  a  while." 

Mr.  Burton  had  brought  a  lamp  ami  mate-lies,  so  that 
we  could  have  a  li^ht  when  we  wished  it  ;  if  we  heard 
any  thing  more  overhead,  I  knew  he  would  examine 
the  at  tie.  There  was  a  lull  in  the  rain  ;  as  we  Bat  ex- 
pectant, the  pu-hiiiu'  sound  was  shortly  followed  by  a 
liirht.  regular  patter,  as  of  soft  footstep-.,  aloin:  tin- 
floor  of  the  irarret.  I  had  heard  rats  make  precisely 
similar  sounds  tra\er.in-.:  a  ceiling;  ami  though  my 
heart  beat  a  little  faster,  I  was  still  quite  certain  i: 
the-e  troublesome  vermin. 

The  next  tiling  which  fixed  our  attention  was  a  glim- 
mer of  li-jht.  I  think  the  most  spectral  \i»itant  could 
hardly  have  aflected  me  as  did  that  sudden  ray  of  li-ht, 
shooting  through  tin-  key-hole  and  under  the  bottom  of 
the  door.  Silently  it  crept  ahm;:  <.\er  the  carpet,  nio\- 
ing  as  if  the  object  which  threw  it  was  carried  in  the 
hand  of  a  person  walking.  I  do  not  know  exactly  what 
I  did  expect  when  it  paused  in  front  of  the  door,  except 


THE   MYSTERY.  183 

that  the  door  would  open,  and  I  should  see — the  mys- 
tery. An  instant  of  suspense — then  the  flickering  light 
wavered  and  moved  aronnd  to  the  opposite  angle  from 
that  at  which  it  had  first  appeared — it  was  going 
through  the  corridor  and  down  the  stairs. 

"  All  right,"  breathed  my  companion,  in  a  scarcely 
audible  whisper.  "  Wait !" 

The  hand  which  he  laid  on  my  own  was  cold  with 
excitement.  As  the  last  yellow  gleam  trembled  and 
disappeared,  the  elements  conspired  in  a  grand  attack 
upon  our  citadel ;  we  could  hear  nothing  but  the  roar 
of  their  artillery — the  tramp  of  their  battalions.  We 
waited  perhaps  five  minutes. 

"  Now,"  and  I  arose,  following  Mr.  Burton  through 
the  darkness,  as  he  silently  opened  the  door,  crossed 
the  corridor,  and,  leaning  over  the  railing,  looked  down 
into  the  lower  hall.  We  could  see  nothing,  until,  as 
we  descended  the  stairs,  a  faint  effulgence  from  some 
distant  room  penetrated  the  obscurity.  With  cautious 
steps  we  followed  it  up  through  the  hall  and  library, 
to  the  family-room,  from  which,  it  will  be  recollected, 
Mrs.  Scott  assured  me  she  had  heard  mysterious  noises. 
The  door  was  open  a  little  distance,  but  not  sufficiently 
to  give  us  a  view  of  the  interior.  As  we  paused  on 
the  threshold,  we  heard  a  sigh — a  deep,  long-drawn, 
tremulous  sigh.  With  a  deft  hand  my  companion 
pushed  the  door  ajar,  so  that  we  could  step  in,  and  we 
both  silently  entered.  This  room,  in  summer,  was  the 
favorite  sitting-room  of  Mrs.  Moreland  ;  and  here,  upon 
the  walls,  she  had  the  portraits,  life-size,  in  oil,  of  her 
little  family.  In  front  of  us,  as  we  stepped  in,  hung 
the  likeness  of  Henry  Moreland.  Before  it  stood  a  wo- 
man, one  hand  holding  aloft  a  lighted  candle,  in  a  small 
chamber-candlestick,  the  other  pressed  upon  her  heart, 
as  if  to  keep  down  those  painful  signs.  Motionless, 
rapt,  absorbed  she  stood ;  we  made  no  sound,  and  if 


184  THE   DEA-D  LETTER. 

•we  had,  I  do  not  think  she  wouM  liavc  heard  us ;  her 
back  was  toward  us;  the  light  was  thrown  full  on  the 
picture  upon  which  her  t_ra/e  was  In-nt. 

The  woman  was  Leesy  Sullivan.  I  knew  her  at 
once,  though  her  face  was  turned  from  us.  Here, 
at  last,  we  had  found  the  fugitive  we  sought, 
haunting  the  home  of  the  man  of  whose  murder  my 
thoughts  accused  her,  standing  before  his  portrait,  in 
the.  dead  of  night,  unwitting  who  were  the  wit:. 
of  her  secret,  as  she  betrayed  it  now.  How  she  had 
obtained  access  to  the  villa,  or  how  long  she  had  been 
its  inmate,  I  left  to  future  inquiry  to  develop — the  pres- 
ent scene  was  all-engrossing. 

Along — long — long  time  she  stood  there;  we  <1i.l 
not  interrupt  her;  it  was  probably  the  expectation  that 
she  would  utter  some  soliloquy  which  would  be  of  im- 
portance to  us,  as  revealing  what  was  on  her  mind, 
which  kept  my  companion  quiet.  She  said  nothing, 
however;  only  drawing  those  deep  sighs;  until,  at  the 
last,  she  set  the  light  on  the  little  table  brm -ath  the 
picture,  and,  lifting  up  both  hands  with  a  passionate 
gesture  toward  it,  solibed  one  word — "  Henry  '." 

Then,  slowly,  as  if  her  e\  es  ivl'u-ed  to  leave  the  ob- 
ject of  their  attraction,  she  began  to  turn  away.  We 
had  one  instant's  Blanco  at  her  face  before  she  discov- 
ered us;  there  was  a  huniing  spot  upon  either  thin 
cheek,  and  two  great  tears,  frozen,  as  it  were,  upon  her 
eyelids;  and  a  tremulous  curve  to  the  full,  red  lips  of 
the  tender  and  beautiful  mouth,  as  it  they  quivered  with 
grief  and  love.  There  was  nothing  wild  or  severe 
about  her  at  that  moment.  Turning,  slowly,  she  per- 
ceived us,  standing  there  in  the  shadow— two  rni.-I 
men,  hunting  her  even  in  this  sacred  solitude.  That 
was  the  feeling  she  gave  us  by  the  look  which  passed 
over  her  countenance ;  I  felt  ashamed  and  unjustified 
until  I  forced  myself  to  recollect  all. 


CONFRONTED.  185 

She  did  not  scream ;  she  had  passed  through  too 
many  vicissitudes  to  betray  any  fright ;  she  only  turned 
white,  and  put  her  hand  on  the  table  to  steady  herself. 

"  You  two  men  have  come  here  at  last,  have  you  ? 
Why  do  you  interfere  with  me?  It's  only  a  little 
while  I  have  to  stay,  and  I  want  peace." 

"  Peace  only  comes  with  a  pure  conscience,"  said 
Mr.  Burton,  sternly.  "  What  are  you  doing  in  this 
house  ?" 

"  I  know  I  have  no  right  here  ;  but  where  else  will 
you  let  me  stay?  Not  even  by  his  grave — no,  not 
even  by  his  grave  !  You  want  to  drag  me  forth  before 
the  world,-  to  expose  my  foolish  secret,  which  I  have 
hidden  from  everybody — to  put  me  in  prison — to  mur- 
der me !  This  is  the  business  of  you  two  men ;  and 
you  have  the  power,  I  suppose.  I  am  so  poor  and 
friendless  it  makes  me  a  fit  object  for  your  persecution. 
Well,  if  you  can  justify  yourselves,  dp  as  you  will 
with  me  !" 

She  folded  her  hands,  looking  us  full  in  the  face  with 
eyes  which  absolutely  blazed. 

"  If  you  had  no  guilty  secret,  why  did  you  fly  from 
friends  and  enemies  ?  Why  did  you  not  seek  an  inter- 
view and  explanation  which  would  have  been  satisfac- 
tory to  us  ?"  asked  Mr.  Burton. 

"  You  would  not  believe  me  if  I  told  you  the  reason," 
scornfully.  "  It  is  not  in  the  minds  of  men — the  gross, 
suspicious  minds  of  me* — to  conceive  or  credit  my  ex- 
cuse. I  will  not  make  it  to  such  people." 

Really,  there  waflpft  majesty  about  the  girl  which 
quite  awed  me.  A^ne  confronted  us,  the  undaunted 
spirit  sparkling  through  her  slight,  wasted  face  and 
form,  compelled  a  sort  of  acquiescence  in  me.  I  was 
not  the  one  to  subdue  or  handle  this  powerful  nature. 
Mr.  Burton  was. 

"  This  is  not  the  proper  hour,  nor  the  proper  place, 


186  THE  DEAD   LETTEB. 

to  enter  into  explanations,  Miss  Sullivan.  You  must 
go  with  me  to  Mrs.  Scott's  cottage ;  she  will  care  for 
you  until  morning,  and  then  we  will  have  :i  t:ilk  i<>- 
gether.  You  will  not  find  me  harsh  ;  nor  shall  1  take 
any  step  without  good  cause.  All  I  want  is  the  truth 
— and  that  I  am  bound  to  have." 

" Let  me  stay  here  to-night;  I  promise  you  I  will 
not  attempt  to  leave  the  place.  I  will  wait  here  until 
you  see  fit  to  come  in  the  morning.'' 

"  I  can  not ;  there  is  too  much  at  stake,"  he  said, 
with  determination. 

"  Then  let  me  go  and  get  the  child,"  she  said. 

She  took  up  the  lamp  and  we  followed  her ;  up  and 
along  the  garret  staircase,  mounting  the  narrow  steps 
which  led  into  the  attic.  There,  upon  tin-  pile  of  mat- 
tresses which  I  have  mentioned  as  lying  in  the  corner, 
reposed  the  baby-girl  before  spoken  of,  sleeping  sweetly, 
as  only  infancy  can  rest. 

"  We  were  under  this  when  you  paid  us  a  visit  the 
other  day,"  said  Leesy.  with  a  sort  of  bitter  smile. 
"I  had  hard  work  to  keep  baby  from  crying  out.  She 
ili<l  make  a  In-*  at  la-t  ;  yon  sai«l  it  was  a  cat." 

"How  sound  the  little  creature  sleeps,"  said  the 
•ive.  IK  had  a  gentle  heart,  which  shrunk  from 
disturbing  the  slumbering  infant. 

"  It's  too  bad  to  startle  her  up  so,"  murmured  her 
nurse. 

"  Yes,  it  is.  I'll  tell  you  wUat  we  will  do.  We  will 
lock  you  up  lii-re,  an-1  ke.'p  «,Mianl  in  the  chamber  until 
morning,  if  that  pleases  you."  4^ 

"I  don't  care  to  take  Norah  oWfo-the  storm." 

"T«ll  me  one  thing,"  said  Mr.  Burton,  his  bright 
eye  fixing  itself  on  her  own  ;  "are  you  the  mother  of 
that  babe  ?" 

For  a  moment  she  answered  his  look  with  one  of 
astonishment ;  then  the  rosy  blood  rushed  up  to  neck, 


MAIDEN   SIMPLICITY.  187 

cheek  and  brow — a  virgin  blush,  which  showed  all  the 
soft  and  girlish  side  of  her  character. 

"  Am  I  Norah's  mother  ?"  she  repeated.  "  I  thought 
you  knew  I  was  not  a  married  woman." 

The  detective  stood,  a  little  embarrassed  by  the  per- 
fect simplicity  of  her  reply. 

"  It  is  understood  to  be  your  deceased  cousin's  child — 
an  orphan,  I  believe,"  he  said.  "  Well,  Miss  Sullivan, 
we  will  leave  you  here,  undisturbed,  for  the  remainder 
of  the  night." 

We  descended  to  the  second  floor,  turning  the  key 
of  the  little  store-room  which  inclosed  the  garret  stair- 
case, well  satisfied  to  keep  guard  until  morning,  since 
we  had  secured  the  mysterious  inmate  of  the  haunted 
house. 


188  THE    DEAD    LETTER. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

THE    SHADOW    ASSUMES   SHAPE. 

WE  now  lighted  our  lamp,  and,  finding  a  light  cane 
sofa  in  the  hall,  nearly  opposite  the  locked  door,  we 
took  seats,  and  kept  ourselves  awake  by  talking.  The 
storm  had  subsided  into  the  monotonous  patter  of  a 
steady  rain. 

"I  am  surprised,"  said  Mr.  Burton,  "that  you  did 
not  at  once  comprehend  the  secret  of  this  house.  The 
moment  you  spoke  the  word  '  haunted,'  I  knew  how  our 
investigations  would  end.  It  solved  a  mystery  whieh 
has  bothered  me  for  some  time.  1  knew  that  Leesy  Sul- 
livan was  hero,  in  this  vicinity;  the  exact  hiding-place 
was  all  I  wanted  to  know  ;  and  when  you  mentioned 
Moreland  villa,  I  said  to  my-elf.  4  that's  it !'  All  I  was 
then  afraid  of  was,  that  she  would  airain  elude  us,  be- 
fore we  could  lay  hands  on  her.  And  in  laet,"  he  add- 
ed laughingly,  "  I  hardly  t'rel  sure  of  her  now.  She 
may  sublime  through  the  ceiling  before  moniiiiLT." 

"I  did  not  think  of  h«-r,  Mr.  llurton;  I  \\  as  .|iiite 
Bare  some  person  was  playing  some  game,  either  <  : 
chief  or  worse,  about  the  villa ;  but  how  could  I  be 
certain,  when  two  thorough  daylight  examinations  failed 
to  reveal  any  thing  ?  There  did  not  seem  to  be  a  plaee 
at  which  a  person  could  enter  the  house ;  and  as  for  a 
woman  and  child  being  actual  inmates,  living  and  sub- 
sisting here  for  weeks — I  think  notliingJiut  actual  proof 
could  have  convinced  me  of  the  man  el.  I  am  curious 
to  know  how  she  managed  it.'' 

"  I  ought  to  have  come  right  here  at  first,"  continued 
my  friend,  pursuing  his  train  of  thought.  "  Women 
are  like  mother-birds,  when  boys  approach  the  nest. 


LEEST   DISCUSSED.  189 

They  betray  themselves  and  their  cherished  secret  by 
flattering  about  the  spot.  If  this  Miss  Sullivan  had 
been  a  man,  she  would  have  been  in  Kansas  or  Califor- 
nia by  this  time ;  being  a  woman,  I  ought  to  have  look- 
ed for  her  in  exactly  the  place  it  would  seem  natural 
for  her  to  avoid.  One  thing  is  certain — she  loved 
young  Moreland  with  an  intensity  beyond  the  strength 
of  most  women.  I  have  had  to  do  with  natures  like 
hers  before — where  a  powerful  brain  is  subservient  to  a 
still  more  poAverful  emotional  force.  She  was  proud, 
ambitious,  discontented,  with  tastes  and  perceptions 
reaching  up  into  a  much  higher  sphere  of  life.  Miss 
Sullivan  would  have  made  a  magnificent  heiress  and 
pet  daughter ;  yet  in  love  she  would  be  humble,  self- 
abnegating — give  all  and  count  it  nothing.  It's  a  sad 
pity  such  a  capacity  for  happiness  should  have  brought 
only  ruin." 

"  If  she  had  loved  Henry,  how  could  she,  under  any 
impulse  of  jealousy,  have  injured  him  ?  She  is  terrible 
to  me  in  any  view  of  the  case." 

"  I  do  not  know  that  she  did  injure  him,  or  cause 
him  to  be  injured.  Circumstances  are  against  her.  But 
I  am  far  from  believing  her  the  guilty  person.  Yet  I 
am  exceedingly  anxious  to  have  a  quiet  interview  with 
her.  I  must  see  her  and  talk  with  her  alone.  She  is 
frightened  now,  and  defiant.  I  shall  soothe  her — mag- 
netize her  will,  as  it  were — and  draw  from  her  the 
truth.  Every  atom  of  knowledge  which  she  has,  in  any 
way  connected  with  Henry  Moreland,  I  shall  draw 
from  her,  and  consolidate  into  one  mass,  to  be  used  for 
or  against  her.  If  you  have  the  reliance  upon  my  judg- 
ment which  I  flatter  myself  you  have,  Richard,  you 
will  not  object  to  my  seeing  Miss  Sullivan  alone,  and 
deciding,  upon  that  interview,  whether  there  are  causes 
for  her  arrest,  as  a  party  to  the  murder." 

"  I  shall  not  object.     It  is  your  privilege  to  see  her 


190  TOE   DEAD   LETTER. 

alone ;  and  I  have  the  utmost  confidence  in  yon.  I  sup- 
pose Mr.  Argyll  and  Henry'*  father  would  be  tin-  proper 
persons  to  decide  upon  the  arreM  and  prosecution."1 

"Of  course.      Ami  if,  after  I  have  talked  with  her,  I 
can  elicit  no  facts  to  warrant  her  l»eing  put  on  trial  tor 
her  life,  I  shall  not  give  her  her  liberty  until  I  have 
consulted  both  families,  laying  all  ray  evidence  1 
them.     They  will  be  loth  to  begin  a  prosecution  which 
they  can  not  sustain,  even  if  they  have  an   ////y/-».<.v/"/i 
of  guilt.     By  the  way,  Kedtield,  the-e  impressions  are 
curious  things!     Supposing  I  should  tell  you  tin 
persons  who,  without  one  particle  of  proof  of  any  kind, 
have  an  impression  that  you  are  the  guilty  man." 

I  arose  from  the  sofa,  looking  at  him,  not.  knowing 
whether  or  not  to  knock  him  down. 

"Don't  'slay  me  with  a  look  ',"  he  said,  laughing 
quietly.  "I  don't  say  that  /have  any  Midi  inner  n  De- 
lation. And  I  did  not  say  this,  either,  to  hurt  your 
feelings.  I  did  it  to  save  them.  For,  if  I  mi>takc  not, 
the  same  person  who  confided  hi*  impic*Mon>  to  me, 
has  recently  been  gradually  confiding  them  toothers. 
The  very  thought,  the  very  possibility,  OOOC  eiitertain- 
ed,  or  half-entertained  and  driven  away  again,  as  an 
unwelcome  gUCSt,  still  lias  its  injurious  influence.  You 
are  standing  upon  an  earthquake,  Richard — you  may 
be  swallowed  up  any  instant." 

-  I  .-- 

"  Yes.     I  have  detected  the  premonitory  ruml. 
I  have  said  this  only  to  warn  you,  that  you  may  I.e 
ready  for  self-deli-: 

"I  scorn  to  deli-iid  my.M'lf:  Defend  myself.  f,,rs,H.th  ! 
against  what  ?  Who  has  dared  to  insinuate  ihat 
thought  against  me  \\hidi  von  have  allowed  voiir>df 
to  echo?  lint  I  need  not  a-k  it  i*  my  natural  foe, 
James  Argyll.  He  hates  me  as  t he  raitl<>nakc  hate* 
the  black-ash  tree!" 


191 

"  Well,  the  dislike  is  mutual.  Will  you  deny  that 
you,  too,  have  had  a  thought — mind,  I  say  a  mere, 
floating  thought — that  he  may  have  instigated  the 
deed  ?" 

My  conscious  eye  sunk  before  the  steel-blue  glance 
which  pierced  me.  God  knows,  such  a  fear,  such  a  be- 
lief, at  times  vague  and  shadowy,  again  vivid  but  brief 
as  lightning,  had  again  and  again  troubled  me.  I 
have  hinted  at  it  once,  when  I  said  that  I  was  glad 
that  if  James  ever  took  money,  unpei-mitted,  from  his 
uncle,  he  took  it  to  waste  at  the  gaming-table.  Soon  I 
raised  my  eyes. 

"  If  I  have  had  such  a  suspicion,  I  have  struggled 
against  it ;  I  have  never  breathed  it  into  mortal  ear. 
He  has  sought  to  injure  me  in  various  ways ;  I  have 
wished  to  win  and  conciliate  him  ;  to  be  friendly  with 
him,  for  the  sake  of  my  regard  for  his  relatives.  As  to 
taking  a  step  to  fix  a  blasting  stigma  upon  him,  with- 
out giving  him  a  chance  openly  to  efface  it,  I  am  inca- 
pable of  it.  You  are  at  liberty  to  judge  between  us, 
Mr.  Burton." 

"  You  know  that  I  do  not  like  him,"  answered  my 
companion.  "  But  no  aversion  which  I  may  feel  for 
him  shall  prevent  my  weighing  all  facts  which  come 
under  my  observation,  with  the  utmost  impartiality.  I 
am  on  the  right  track,  in  this  pursuit,  and  I  shall  follow 
it  up  to  the  dark  end,  though  you,  yourself,  abandon 
it.  Justice  shall  be  meted  out !  If  the  bolt  strikes  the 
loftiest  head  in  all  this  aristocratic  vicinity,  it  shall  fall 
where  it  belongs." 

He  left  the  sofa,  walking  up  and  down  the  corridor 
with  a  stern,  thoughtful  face.  As  for  me,  I  sunk  back 
on  my  seat,  overwhelmed  by  the  confirmation  of  a  thou- 
sand times  more  than  my  worst  fears.  Suspicion  of  me 
was  creeping  like  a  shadow  over  the  Argyll  household. 
I  had  felt  its  approach  long  ago ;  now  my  whole  being 


192  THE    DEAD    LETTER. 

grew  cold,  freezing  except  one  burning  spasm  of  indig- 
nation which  throbbed  in  my  bn- 

As  the  gray  dawn  approached,  the  rain  ceased. 
Morning  was  long  in  coming.  As  soon  as  it  grew  light 
enough  to  see,  I  heard  the  gardener  cutting  wood  for 
the  fire,  and  shortly  after  I  walked  over,  at  Mr.  Burton's 
request,  to  ask  for  some  breakfast  for  the  woman  and 
child.  I  will  not  describe  the  garrulous  astonishment 
of  the  husband  and  wile  upon  my  announcement  that 
the  ghost  was  cornered,  and  proved  to  be  Leesy  Sulli- 
van. Of  course  the  evil  omen  of  hearing  children  cry- 
ing was  now  explained,  as  well  as  the  disappearance  of 
a  considerable  quantity  of  flour,  condiments  and  apples, 
which  Mrs.  Scott  had  charged  to  the  rats. 

it  went  sorely  against  the  inclination  of  formal,  cor- 
rect Mrs.  Scott,  to  furnish  a  comfortable  1> 
"such  a  jade  as  that  seemed  likely  to  prove  ;  behavin' 
in  this  style,  which  nobody  on  'arth  could  account  for  ;" 
but  the  gratification  of  her  feminine  curiosity  was  some 
reward  for  the  outrage  to  her  sensibilities,  and  she  went 
with  great  expedition  to  carry  the  desired  refreshments 
to  the  prisoners. 

When  we  entered  the  attic,  in  the  light  of  the  rising 
sun,  Miss  Sullivan  was  sitting  quietly  on  the  edge  of 
the  mattresses,  curling  little  Nora's  flaxen  hair  around 
her  fingers.  An  obstinate  reticence  marked  her  looks 
and  actions ;  she  scarcely  replied  to  any  of  Mrs.  Scott's 
inquiries— only,  when  the  comfort  of  the  child  was  con- 
cerned. For  her  she  took  some  of  the  warm  food  and 
tea,  quietly  feeding  the  eager  little  girl,  while  we  made 
a  survey  of  her  surroundings. 

I  now  ascertained  that  a  small  sky-light,  hidden  from 
outside  view  by  tin-  <  himneys  and  ornamental  work  of 
the  battlements,  had  given  egress  to  the  mysterious 
brightness  which  had  hovered  so  frequently  over  the 
roof.  The  tenant  of  this  great  house  had  evidently 


ALONE   WITH   THE   WOMAN.  193 

arranged  herself  for  the  winter.  She  had  chosen  the  attic 
as  a  place  of  greatest  safety,  in  the  case  of  parties  enter- 
ing the  deserted  dwelling  for  any  purpose  ;  here  she  had 
brought  a  tiny  charcoal-furnace,  xised  in  the  basement 
in  summer-time  for  the  purpose  of  heating  smoothing- 
irons,  which  she  supplied  with  fuel  from  the  stock  left 
over  in  the  cellar.  The  provisions  left  in  the  house  had 
served  her  wants  equally  well.  It  was  evident  that  by 
the  exercise  of  extreme  care  and  vigilance,  leaving  the 
house  only  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  she  might 
have  remained  here  for  a  considerable  longer  time  un- 
disturbed in  her  novel  seclusion,  had  not  the  light, 
which  she  had  never  ventured  to  burn  until  all  was 
dark  and  silent  in  the  little  cottage,  by  chance  first 
attracted  the  curiosity  which  led  finally  to  discov- 
ery. 

Mr.  Burton  took  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  roll,  brought  to 
him  there;  and  then,  at  his  request,  he  was  left  alone 
with  the  silent  woman,  who  sat  there  with  resolute 
brows  and  lips  firmly  closed,  as  if  locked  over  her 
thoughts. 

"  It  will  require  all  his  diplomacy  to  wile  her  into  a 
communicative  mood,"  was  my  decision,  as  I  took  a 
parting  glance  at  her  face.  I  was  chilled  with  my 
night's  watching,  and  chilled  more  utterly  by  the  Avords 
the  detective  had  spoken  to  me  as  I  watched  ;  I  return- 
ed to  the  cottage-fire,  sitting  there  three  hours,  in  a 
painful  reverie,  answering  almost  at  random  the  remarks 
of  the  housekeeper. 

At  the  close  of  the  three  hours,  Mr.  Burton  came  into 
the  little  dwelling,  carrying  Norah  in  his  arms,  who  was 
stroking  his  cheek  with  her  chubby  hand,  and  followed 
by  the  sewing-girl,  whose  cheeks  bore  traces  of  tears, 
and  whose  hunted,  defiant  look  had  given  place  to  a 
dejected,  gentle  expression. 

"  Mrs.  Scott,  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  kindness,"  he 
9 


194  THE   DEAD    LETTEB. 

said,  in  his  authoritative,  persuasive  manner,  to  which 
people  seldom  thought  it  worth  while  to  object.  "I 
want  you  to  take  care  of  Miss  Sullivan  and  this  little 
cousin  of  hers,  until  I  send  them  word  they  aix-  wanted. 
It  may  be  to-day,  or  not  fora  week.  In  the  mean  time, 
if  you  have  any  sewing  to  be  done  for  yourself  or  lit- 
tle Johnny,  she  will  be  glad  to  help  you." 

"  She's  welcome  to  stay,  I'm  sure,"  said  the  woman, 
in  a  tone  not  quite  so  sure. 

"  Thank  you.  I  knew  I  could  ask  a  favor  of  you. 
Johnny,  come  here,  and  make  Miss  Nora's  acquaintance. 
I'm  ready,  Richard,  if  you  are,  to  return  to  the  village. 
Lenore  will  wonder  what  has  become  of  us.  Good- 
morning,  all." 

We  walked  away. 

"  Are  you  not  afraid  to  leave  that  girl  unguarded, 
after  all  the  trouble  she  has  given 

"  She  will  stay  there ;  she  has  promised  me.  If  she 
chooses  to  run  away,  now,  it  is  a  matter  of  no  conse- 
quence. I  am  perfectly,  entirely  convinced  that  she  is 
innocent  of  any  participation  in  the  murder  of  Henry 
Moreland  ;  or  any  knowledge  of  the  murder— except, 
upon  one  point,  I  could  use  hrr  testimony.  1  shall  u'u  e 
my  opinion  to  Mr.  Argyll,  with  my  grounds  for  it  ;  it' 
be  chooses  to  arrest  hrr,  S!R>  will  be  there  at  the  cot- 
tage. Richard,  this  aftair  has  gone  as  far  as  it  can  !  I 
Shall  tell  Mr.  Argyll,  to-<lay,  that  I  have  withdrawn 
from  it — that  I  give  it  up.  Hut  I  am  willing  you 
should  understand  that  I  have  not  dropped  it  entirely 
— that  I  shall  still  retain  my  interest  in  it — still  secretly 
pursue  my  investigations,  which  1  believe  I  can  earn- 
on  to  the  best  advantage  if  all  parties  believe  that  I 
have  given  the  matter  up.  Are  you  satisfied  ?" 

"  If  I  am  not,  what  difference  does  it  make?  It  is 
not  for  me  to  dictate  your  course.  I  believe  that  you 
think  it  is  the  best  one." 


DISMISSAL.  105 

"  I  do.  So  will  yon  some  day,  if  we  live  to  see  the 
termination  of  this  thing.  In  the  mean  time,  I  am  your 
friend,  Richard,  whether  I  give  any  outward  signs  of 
friendship  very  soon  or  not.  You  are  at  liberty  to  de- 
vote yourself  to  the  cause  as  ardently  as  ever — and  if 
ever  you  wish  to  consult  me,  you  will  find  me  what 
you  now  know  me." 

I  felt  strangely  as  we  walked  along  together.  He 
talked  as  if  he  thought  some  change  were  coming — as 
if  things  were  to  assume  new  shapes — as  if  I  were  to 
need  friendship,  and  yet  as  if  he  should  be  compelled 
to  conceal  his  for  mebehind  a  mask  of  coldness.  I  did 
not  understand  it.  I  felt  half  offended  with  him,  and 
wholly  disheartened. 

I  dined  with  him  at  Mr.  Argyll's.  It  was  the  last 
time  I  sat  at  that  table. 

In  the  afternoon  he  had  a  private  interview  wTith  the 
family,  from  which  1  was  excluded;  and  in  the  even- 
ing he  returned  to  the  city,  taking  with  him  Lenore, 
the  last  wave  of  whose  hand  was  for  James,  her  last 
kiss  for  Miss  Argyll. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Argyll  informed  me  that  he 
had  resolved  to  make  his  nephew  his  partner  in  the 
practice  of  the  law,  and  that  I  was  at  liberty  to  take 
advantage  of  any  other  opportunity  I  might  have  for- 
going into  business  for  myself.  His  manner  was  cold  ; 
he  expressed  no  regrets  for  my  probable  disappoint- 
ment, caused  by  his  own  suggestions ;  I  could  feel  my- 
self dismissed  from  his  friendship  as  well  as  his  .office. 
I  would  not  ask  why.  My  tongue  grew  dry  as  ashes 
when  I  thought  of  attempting  it.  Mr.  Burton  had 
given  me  the  clue  to  the  feelings  which  prompted  this 
rupture  of  a  life-long  friendship — it  was  such  as  to  for- 
bid any  questions.  No  explanations  could  be  made — 
nothing  could  obliterate  the  memory  of  so  deadly  a 
wrong  as  they  were  committing  upon  me.  The  golden 


106  THE    DEAD   LETTEB. 

bowl  of  friendship  was  broken  at  the  fountain — the 
waters  spilled  upon  the  ground. 

I  told  him  that  I  had  contemplated  a  visit  to  my 
mother,  which  I  would  take  this  opportunity  to  make. 
I  might  find  what  I  wished  for,  in  the  way  of  lui-i. 
in  the  vicinity  of  my  father's  former  home;  when,  with 
formal  thanks  for  his  past  kindness  (which  I  was  men- 
tally vowing  I  would  find  some  means  to  repay),  and 
begging  him  to  trouble  himself  not  at  all  about  my 
fortunes,  I  bowed  myself  from  the  office  where 
I  had  spent  so  much  of  the  last  three  years  of  my 
life. 

Blind,  dizzy,  cold,  I  went  to  my  boarding-house  to 
pack  my  trunks. 

Before  I  went  to  bed,  my  lew  arrangements  were 
completed.  My  clothes,  books,  tb«  few  little  articles 
of  ta-le,  or  gifts  of  friends,  allowable  in  one  small 
rented  room,  were  easily  put  away  in  their  traveling  re- 
ceptacle. Hut,  as  for  the  rest! — for  the  wealth  which 
my  heart  had  silently  garnered  during  the  golden  har- 
vc-t  of  youth — where  was  it?  Swept  away  as  by  a 
mighty  wind. 

I  slept  some,  for  I  was  thoroughly  worn  out  l»y  my 
emotions,  no  le?s  than  by  my  recent  vigils ;  but  tho 
earliest  morning  found  mo  awake.  I  was  to  leave  at 
noon  ;  I  had  many  pleasant  acquaintances  in  the  village, 
from  whom  I  ought  not  to  have  parted  without  a  fare- 
well call;  but  all  these  small  pleasures  and  romh-us 
of  life  were  swept  aside,  as  sand  upon  my  path.  I  had 
nothing  to  do,  all  the  tedious  morning,  save  to 
pretend  to  eat  my  breakfast,  until  the  hour  which  I 
had  set  in  my  thought*  for  saying  good-by  to  tho 
girls. 

I  would  not  go  away  without  seeing  them  ;  if  there 
wa«  any  accusation  in  their  eyes  I  would  confront  it. 
And  then,  I  did  not  believe  that  Eleanor  would  do  me 


HOKBOR.  197 

an  injustice.  Blue-eyed,  just,  gentle  as  was  her  char- 
acter, sAe,  at  least,  was  grieved  for  me — believed  in  me. 
I  did  not  admit  to  myself  how  much  comfort  I  drew 
from  this  faith,  until  I  was  startled  from  it.  My  bag- 
gage was  dispatched ;  my  watch  told  eleven  ;  I  passed 
the  house  on  the  way  to  the  -cars,  giving  myself  a  few 
minutes  for  this  farewell.  As  I  knocked  at  the  door, 
one  of  the  servants  opened  it.  I  sent  her  to  ask  Miss 
Argyll  if  she  would  come  down  to  say  good-by,  before 
I  left  on  n\y  visit  to  my  mother  ;  and  Mary — I  would 
like  to  see  her  also. 

While  I  waited  for  them,  I  stepped  into  the  dear  fa- 
miliar parlors  and  library,  mutely  taking  my  leave  of 
them,  with  all  their  mingled  associations.  Presently 
the  messenger  returned  : 

"  Miss  Argyll  sent  her  farewell ;  she  could  not  see 
Mr.  Redfield  that  morning." 

"  Where  is  she  ?'» 

"  In  the  breakfast-room,  looking  at  her  flowers." 

I  started  for  the  room  in  a  wild  tumult  of  anger  and 
passion,  resolved  to  make  her  confess  the  reason  of  this 
treatment.  Surely,  three  years  of  an  intimacy  like 
ours,  gave  me  the  right.  In  three  minutes  I  confronted 
her  where  she  stood,  in  the  door  between  the  breakfast- 
room  and  conservatory,  like  a  statue  draped  in  crape. 

"  Eleanor !" 

She  shrunk  back ;  she  held  up  her  hands  with  an  ex- 
pression of  horror.  My  God  !  that  look  in  Eleanor's 
eyes  was  enough  to  kill  me.  I  turned  away  as  hastily 
as  I  had  come.  As  I  stumbled  along  the  passage,  half 
blind  with  the  terrible  surging  and  throbbing  of  the 
blood  through  me,  a  soff  pair  of  arms  fell  about  my 
neck,  a  cheek  wet  with  tears  was  pressed  to  mine — it 
was  Mary. 

"  Never  mind  what  they  say  about  you,  Richard," 
she  sobbed.  "  I  don't  believe  one  word  of  it — not  one 


198  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

word  !  I  never  shall.  I  am  your  friend.  I  love  you ; 
indeed  I  do.  I  do  not  want  you  to  go  away,"  and  she 
ki'M'-.l  me  twice  or  thrice. 

I  took  the  sweet  face  in  my  cold  hands,  looked  into 
the  brimming  eyes,  hastily  kissed  the  blushing  cheek 
— "  God  bless  you,  Mary,"  said  I,  and  was  gone. 


EXD    OF   PART   FIRST. 


THE   DEAD    LETTER 


PAET    II. 


PART    II 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE   LETTEE. 

THE  reader  can  now  understand  why  it  was  that  I 
turned  cold  with  excitement  as  I  sat  there  in  the  dead- 
letter  office,  holding  the  time-stained  epistle  in  my 
hand.  Every  woi'd  burned  itself  into  my  brain.  Ob- 
scure as  it  was — non-committal — directed  to  an  unknown 
person  of  a  neighboring  village — 1  yet  felt  assured  that 
those  vague  hints  had  reference  to  the  sinful  tragedy 
which  had  occurred  October  17th,  1857.  Here  was 
placed  in  my  hands — at  last ! — a  clue  to  that  mystery 
which  I  had  once  sworn  to  unravel.  Yet,  how  slender 
was  the  clue,  which  might,  after  all,  lead  me  into  still 
profouncler  labyrinths  of  doubt  and  perplexity  !  As  1 
pondered,  it  seemed  to  break  and  vanish  in  my  fingers. 
Yet,  I  felt,  in  spite  of  this,  an  inward  sense  that  I  held 
the  key  which  was  surely  to  unlock  the  a^cful  secret.  I 
can  never  rightly  express  the  feelings  which,  for  the 
first  few  moments,  overpowered  me.  My  body  was  icy 
cold,  but  my  soul  stung  and  stirred  me  as  with  fire, 
and  seemed  to  rise  on  "  budding  wings  "  of  flame  with 
conviction  of  a  speedy  triumph  which  was  to  come 
after  long  suffering.  I  arose,  clutched  my  hat,  and 
went  forth  from  the  Department,  to  return  to  it  no 
more,  for  the  present.  Half  the  night  I  sat  in  my  room 
at  my  boarding-place,  looking  at  that  letter  on  the 
table  before  me. 

Before  I  proceed  further  with  its  history,  I  will  give, 
in  a  few  words,  the  brief,  monotonous  record  of  my  life, 
since  I  was  driven — driven  is  the  word  you  must  use, 
8* 


200  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

Richard,  haughty  and  sensitive  though  you  may  be — 
from  the  friendship  and  presence  of  the  Argylls,  and 
from  my  prospects  of  A  long-cherished  settlement  in 
life.  I  made  the  visit  to  my  mother.  She  was  sli<»c-k» -d 
at  the  change  in  me,  and  grieved  that  I  withheld  my 
confidence  from  her.  But,  I  did  not  feel  in  a  confiding 
mood.  The  gentleness  of  my  nature  had  been  hard- 
ened ;  I  was  bitter,  sneering,  skeptical ;  not  from  my 
own  mother  would  I  accept  the  sympathy  which  my 
chilled  heart  seemed  no  longer  to  crave.  Only  one 
thing  saved  me  from  utter  loathing  of  humanity,  and 
that  was  the  memory  of  Mary '•  tare,  a*  >he  had  sought 
me  at  parting.  In  those  s \vi-ot  eya  we:v  tru>t  and 
love;  tho  tears  which  streamed  down  and  foil  upon  hoi- 
bosom,  the  quiver  of  her  lip,  the  sobs  and  fond  words, 
attested  to  the  sorrow  with  which  she  had  beheld  my 
banishment. 

Of  course  my  mother  was  surprised  to  hear  that  I 
had  left  Blankville,  with  no  intention  of  returning  to 
it ;  that  the  long-understood  partnership  was  not  to  bo 
entered  into.  But,  she  did  not  press  me  lor  explana- 
tions. She  waited  for  me  to  toll  her  all,  patiently ; 
ministering  to  my  health  and  comfort,  meanwhile,  as  a 
widoutd  mother  will  minister  to  an  only  son — with  a 
tondern<-!.s  only  less  than  that  of  heaven,  because  it  is 

arth. 

•  iv  I  had  been  at  home  A  fortnight,  the  unnatural 
tension  of  my  mind  and  ner\e<  produced  a  sure  result 
— a  reliction  took  place,  and  I  foil  s'u-k.  It  was  in  the 
Softer  mood  which  rame  o\er  mo,  AS  I  was  coin  ah-M-ing 
from  this  illness,  that  I  finally  told  my  mother  all  tho 
dreadful  story  of  the  influences  which  had  broken  up 
my  connection  with  the  Argylls.  Her  grief  for  me, 
her  indignation  against  my  enemy  or  cm 
what  might  have  been  expected.  I  could  hardly  ro- 
ptrain  her  from  starting  at  once  for  Blankville,  to  stand 


A  MOTHER'S  LOVE.  201 

before  her  old  friend,  the  friend  of  my  father,  and  ac- 
cuse him,  face  to  face,  of  the  wrong  he  had  done  her 
boy.  But,  out  of  this  I  persuaded  her.  I  asked  her 
if  she  did  not  see  that  the  wrong  was  irreparable?  I 
could  not  forgive  it.  It  did  not  admit  of  being  talked 
about ;  let  the  cloud  drop  between  them  and  us ;  our 
paths  were  henceforth  apart.  To  this  she  finally 
yielded ;  and,  if  there  could  have  been  any  balm  to  my 
wounded  pride  and  still  more  deeply  wounded  affec- 
tions, I  should  have  found  it  in  the  enhanced,  touching, 
almost  too-perfect  tenderness  with  which  my  parent 
sought  to  make  up  to  me  that  which  I  had  lost. 

For  a  few  weeks  I  abandoned  myself  to  ,her  healing 
attentions.  Then  I  set  myself  resolutely  to  find  work 
both  for  hands  and  mind.  My  mother  was  not  without 
influential  friends.  As  I  have  said,  my  fortunes  were 
somewhat  nipped  by  my  father's  untimely  death,  but 
our  family  and  associations  were  among  the  best.  We 
had  a  relative  in  power  at  Washington.  To  him  I  ap- 
plied for  a  clerkship,  and  received,  in  answer,  the  situa- 
tion I  was  filling,  at  the  time  when  that  dead-letter 
came  so  strangely  into  my  hands. 

It  may  be  thought  improbable  that  I  should  abandon 
the  profession  for  which  I  had  studied  with  so  much 
zeal.  But,  the  very  memory  of  that  zeal,  and  of  the 
hopes  which  had  stimulated  it,  now  gave  me  a  dtslike 
to  the  law.  I  requited  both  change  of  scene  and  of 
pursuits.  The  blow  dealt  at  my  heart  had  stunned  my 
ambition,  also.  To  one  of  my  temperament,  aspira- 
tions, acquisitiveness,  all  the  minor  passions  and  pur- 
suits of  life  are  but  steps  leading  up  the  hillside  to  the 
rose-crowned  summit,  where  love  sits  smiling  under 
the  eye  of  heaven.  And  I,  being  for  the  time  at  least, 
blasted  prematurely,  was  no  more  myself,  but  was  to 
myself  like  a  sti-anger  within  my  own  sanctuary.  I 
went  into  the  dead-letter  office,  and  commenced  my 


202  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

routine  of  breaking  seals  and  registering  contents,  as 
if  1  had  been  born  for  that  business.  I  was  a  rapid 
worker,  quiet,  and  well-thought-of  by  my  a^oeiatcs, 
who  deemed  me  a  little  cold  and  skeptical,  a  trihY  re- 
served, very  steady  for  so  young  a  i'ello\v,  and  an  effi- 
cient clerk  who  thoroughly  earned  his  salary.  That 
was  all  they  knew  of  1  lie-hard  I  led  field.  And  in  those 
days  I  did  not  know  much  more  about  myself.  The 
months  had  worn  away,  one  after  the.  other,  with  a 
dreary  coldness.  In  the  summer  I  struggled  through 
the  sulVocatin<_r  dust;  in  the  winter  I  picked  my  way 
through  the  disgusting  mud,  to  and  fro,  from  my  lodg- 
ings to  the  office  buildings;  that  was  about  all  the. 
change  which  the  seasons  brought  to  me,  whom  once 
the  smell  of  spring  violets  tilled  with  pungent  delight, 
and  the  odor  of  June  roses  made  happy  as  a  god  on 
Olympus. 

Half  thr>  night  I  sat  brooding  over  that  l>i  i«: 
lion,  so  precious  to  me,  yet  so  loathsome.  The  longer 
I  pondered  its  words  the  less  vivid  grew  my  hope  of 
making  any  triumphant  use  of  it  for  the  detection  of 
the  two  guilty  persons — the  one  who  wrote  it,  and  the 
one  to  whom  it  was  addressed.  I  might  lay  it  1 

'  rgyll,  but  he  might  not  feel,  as  I  did,  that  it  had 
any  connection  with  the  murder,  neither  \\as  there  any- 
thing.to  prove  but  that  the  missive  might  ha\e  been 
directed  tome.  Indeed,  .Mr.  Aru'yjl  might  well  inquire 
how  I  could  pretend  that  it  should  ha\e  reached  me 
through  the  routine  of  the  dead-letter  department,  alter 
all  this  stretch  of  time— very  nearly  t  \\ 

This  was  a  matter  which  pu/./lcd  me  exceedingly. 
In    the  ordinary  course  of  art'm--.   ,t    \\.-nM,   if  not 
claimed,   have   been  forwarded    to    NVa-hin^ton    : 
months  after  its  reception  at  Peekskill,  and  have  long 
ago  been  consigned  to  the  waste-basket  and  the  ti 
The  hand  of  an  overruling  Providence  seemed  to  be 


AROUSED   FROM    APATHY.  203 

moving  the  men  in  this  terrible  game.  At  that  hour  I 
recognized  it,  and  felt  a  solemn  conviction  that,  sooner 
or  later,  the  murderer  would  be  checkmated.  It  was 
this  assurance,  more  than  any  evidence  contained  in 
the  letter,  which  gave  me  hope  that  it  would  eventually 
be  the  instrument  of  punishment  to  the  guilty.  I  re- 
membered the  vow  I  had  once  made  to  my  soul,  never 
to  rest  in  the  peace  of  my  own  pursuits,  until  I  had 
dragged  the  slayer  of  the  innocent  into  the  awful  pre- 
sence of  Justice.  That  vow  I  had  neglected  to  fulfill 
to  the  uttermost,  partly  because  of  the  injury  which 
had  been  done  to  my  self-love,  and  also  because  the  cir- 
cumstance which  had  attached  suspicion  to  me,  in  the 
eyes  of  those  interested,  had  made  it  dangerous  for  me 
to  move  in  a  matter  where  all  my  motives  were  miscon- 
strued. But  now  that  Fate  had  interposed  in  this  sin- 
gular manner,  in  my  behalf  and  in  that  of  Truth,  I 
took  fresh  courage.  I  was  fully  startled  from  my 
apathy.  That  night  I  wrote  my  resignation  to  the 
Department,  gathered  up  my  few  effects  again,  and  the 
next  morning  found  me  on  the  way  to  New  York. 

My  first  purpose  was  to  consult  Mr.  Burton.  I  had 
not  seen  him  since  the  day  when  we  parted  in  Blank- 
ville ;  I  only  knew,  by  accident,  that  he  was  still  a  res- 
ident of  New  York,  having  casually  heard  his  name 
mentioned  in  connection  with  a  case  which  had  brought^ 
some  detectives  on  to  Washington  only  a  few  weeks 
previous. 

I  had  never  forgiven  or  understood  the  part  he  had 
played  in  that  last  interview  with  the  Argylls.  I  re- 
membered the  assurance  he  had  given  me  of  friendship, 
but  I  did  not  believe  that  he  had  shown  any  friendship 
for  me,  in  that  consultation  with  the  relatives,  or  the 
results  would  not  have  been  so  disastrous  to  me. 
Nevertheless,  I  felt  a  confidence  in  him ;  he  was  tho 
man  for  the  emergency,  and  to  him  I  would  take  the 


204  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

le.tter.  I  thought  it  quite  probable,  that  in  the  multi- 
plicity of  !K>\v  interests,  the  circumstances  which  lia.l 
once  brought  ns  so  much  together  had  laded  from  liis 
mind,  and  that  I  should  have  tu  reawaken  his  recollec- 
tion of  the  details. 

On  the  morning  ai'ter  my  arrival  in  New  V. .;•]<,  I 
consulted  the  directory,  and  finding  that  Mr.  Hurton 
Still  resided  in  Twenty-third  street,  1  called  at  the 
house  at  the  earliest  admissible  hour. 

While  I  was  handing  my  card  to  the  servant,  his 
master  came  out  of  the  library  at  the  end  of  the  hall, 
and  hastening  forward,  shook  me  heartily  by  the  hand. 
His  joyous  tones  were  better  evidence  of  his  pleasure 
at  M-j'ing  me,  than  even  his  words,  which  were  cordial 
enough. 

"  I  heard  your  voice,  Richard,"  he  said,  "  and  did  not 
wait  for  you  to  be  ushered  in  with  the  formalities. 
Welcome,  my  friend;"  hi-  expression  was  as  it'  he  had 
said — t%  Welcome,  my  son." 

He  le.l  me  into  tin-  library,  and  placing  me  in  an  :irm- 
ehair,  sat  down  opposite  me,  looking  at  me  with  the 
woll-rerncmbercd  piercing  shafts  of  those  steel-blue 
eyes.  After  Inquiring  about  my  health,  etc.,  he  s;iid, 
suddenly, 

"  Y«>ii  have  news." 

"  You  arc  ri'^ht,  Mr.  Hurt  on — else  I  should  not  have 
been  here.      I  suppose   yon  arc  aware   that   I  ha\e  been 
a  clerk  in   the;   dead-letter   office   for   the   last   c'u  ; 
months  ?" 

"I  was  aware  of  it.  I  ne\«-r  intended  to  let  you 
slip  out  of  the  numbered  rosary  of  m\  friends-,  and 
IOM-  you  so  entirely  as  not  even  to  know  your  where- 
about 

"Day  before  yesterday  this  letter  arrived  at  the 
Office,  and  I  chanced  to  be  the  clerk  who  opened  it.'' 

I  handed  him  the  missive.    He  examined  the  envelope 


"ALL  THINGS  ARE  PROVIDENTIAL."  205 

attentively,  before  unfolding  the  sheet  within  ;  and  as 
he  continued  to  hold  it  in  his  hand,  and  gaze  at  it,  one 
of  those  wonderful  changes  passed  over  his  countenance 
that  I  had  remarked  on  some  previous  important  occa- 
sions. His  practical  intelligence  seized  upon  the  date, 
the  post-office  marks,  the  hasty  direction,  and  made 
the  contents  of  the  letter  his  own,  almost,  before  he 
read  it.  For  some  moments  he  pondered  the  outside, 
then  drew  forth  the  letter,  perused  it  with  one  swift 
glance,  and  sat  holding  it,  gazing  at  it,  lost  in  thought, 
and  evidently  forgetful  of  my  presence.  A  stern  pal- 
lor settled  gradually  over  his  usually  placid  face  ;  at 
last  he  looked  up,  and  seeing  me,  recalled  his  surround- 
ings to  his  recollection. 

"  It  is  sad  to  be  made  to  feel  that  such  creatures  live 
and  flourish,"  he  said,  almost  despondingly  ;  "  but,"  as 
his  face  brightened,  "  I  can  not  say  how  glad  I  am 
to  get  hold  of  this.  It  partially  explains  some  things 
which  I  have  already  found  out.  The  chance  which 
threw  this  document  into  your  hands  was  a  marvelous 
one,  Richard." 

"  However  simple  the  explanation  may  prove  to  be, 
I  shall  always  regard  it  as  Providential." 

"  All  things  are  Providential,"  said  my  companion, 
"  none  less,  and  none  more  so.  Causes  will  have  their 
effects.  But  now,  as  to  the  writer  of  this — I  am  glad 
I  have  a  specimen  of  the  villain's  handwriting ;  it  will 
enable  me  to  know  the  writer  when  I  see  him." 

"  How  so,  Mr.  Burton  ?" 

"  Because  I  have  a  very  good  picture  of  him,  now, 
•  in  my  mind's  eye.  He,  is  about  thirty  years  of  age, 
rather  short  and  broad-shouldered,  muscular  ;  has  dark 
complexion  and  black  eyes  ;  the  third  finger  of  his  right 
hand  has  been  injured,  so  as  to  contract  the  muscles 
and  leave  it  useless.  He  has  some  education,  which  he 
has  acquired  by  hard  study  since  he  grew  up  to  be  his 


206  THE   DEAD   LETTEB. 

o\vn  master.  His  childhood  AV.TS  passed  in  ignorance, 
in  the  midst  of  the  |  .-iations;  and  his  own 

nature  is  almost  utterly  depraved,  lit-  is  bad,  from 
instinct,  inheritance  and  bringing-up ;  and  now,  our 
blessed  Redeemer,  himself,  would  hardly  find  good 
enough  in  him  to  promise  n  hope  of  ultimate  salvation. 
It  is  curious  that  he  should  ever  have  seen  lit  to  >tudv, 
so  as  to  acquire  even  the  smattering  of  knowledge 
which  he  has.  He  must  have  been  led" into  it  by  some 
powerful  passion.  If  I  could  decide  what  that  passion 
was,  I  might  have  a  key  to  unlock  the  irate  into  some 
other  matt. 

<l  at  the  speaker  in  astonishment  as  he  rapidly 
pronounced  the  above  analysis  of  the  personal  appear- 
ance and  character  of  the  writer. 

"Do  you  know  him  ?''  I  asked. 

"  I  do  not  know  his  name,  and  I  have  never  met  him. 
All  the  acquaintance  I  have  with  him,  I  have  made 
through  the  medium  of  his  chirography.  It  is  suHicient 
for  me;  I  can  not  mistake," — then,  observing  my  puz- 
zled and  incredulous  look,  he  smiled,  as  he  a. I. led,  M  I'.y 
the  way,  Iti'-hard,  you  are  not  aware  of  mv  accoin- 
pli>hment  in  the  art  of  reading  men  and  women  from 
a  specimen  of  their  handwriting.  It  is  one  of  my 
greatest  aids  in  the  prolix-ion  to  which  I  have-  devoted 
,f.  The  results  I  obtain  sometimes  astonish  my 
fiiends.  IJut,  I  assure  you,  there  is  nothing  man  clous 
in  them.  Patient  study  and  unwearied  observation, 
with  naturally  quick  perceptions,  are  the  only  witch- 
craft 1  use.  With  modei-:ile  natural  ahilit'n  I,  I 
that  any  other  pi'rson  could  e<|iial  me  in  this  art  (black 
art,  some  of  my  ac«piaintances  regard  it,)  by  Diving 
the  same  time  to  it  that  a  musician  would  to  DUMttt1  a" 
instrument."  t  • 

"I  do  not  know  about  that,  Mr.  Burton.     I  guess  it 
would  take  a  mind  of  the  singular  compot>ition  of  your 


A   STRAXGE   AET.  207 

own  to  make  much  out  of  an  art  with  no  rules  and  no 
foundations." 

"It  has  its  rtiles,  for  me.  But  as  proof  is  better 
than  argument,  show  me  any  letters  or  scraps  of  writing 
you  may  have  about  you.  I  would  like  to  satisfy  you, 
before  we  proceed  further,  for  I  do  not  wish  you  to 
feel  that  you  are  working  with  a  crack-brained  indi- 
vidual, who  is  riding  a  hobby  at  your  expense." 

I  emptied  my  inside  coat-pocket  of  its  contents, 
among  which  were  several  letters — one  from  my  mother, 
a  note  from  my  uncle  in  Washington,  an  invitation  from 
an  old  college-chum  to  attend  his  wedding  in  Boston, 
and  two  or  three  business  epistles  from  casual  acquaint- 
ances— one,  I  remember,  an  entreaty  from  a  young  man 
to  get  him  something  to  do  in  that  magnetic  center  of 
all  unemployed  particles — Washington.  Of  these,  I 
revealed  only  to  him  the  superscription  and  signature, 
with,  perhaps,  some  unimportant  sentence,  which  would, 
in  no  way,  of  itself,  betray  the  characters  or  pursuits 
of  the  writers.  I  need  not  describe  my  surprise  when, 
in  eacli  instance,  he  gave  a  careful  and  accurate  de- 
scription of  the  age,  appearance,  habits,  profession  and 
mental  qualities  of  the  person  whose  handwriting  he 
had  examined. 

I  could  hardly  credit  my  own  senses ;  there  must  be 
some  "  fiocus-poous"  about  it,  as  in  the  tricks  which  jug- 
glers play  with  cards.  But  my  respect  for  the  earnest- 
ness of  my  companion's  pursuits,  and  the  indubitable 
nature  of  his  proof,  did  not  allow  me  to  doubt  any  length 
of  time.  I  became  a  believer  in  his  facts,  and  I  give 
these  facts  to  my  readers,  at  the  risk  of  seeing  the  plain, 
sensible  nose  of  the  majority  turned  up  with  an  expres- 
sion of  skepticism,  mortifying  to  me.  Mr.  Burton's 
character  is  a  real  one,  and  the  truth  of  his  wonderful 
achievements  will  become  history. 

The  terrible  interest  of  the  subject  which  had  brought 


208  THE  DEAD  LETTER. 

us  together  did  not  permit  us  to  spend  ranch  time  in 
these  interesting  but  irrelevant  experiments.  We  dis- 
cussed the  past  and  present.  Mr.  I'.iirton  assured  me 
that  he  had  never,  for  a  day,  lost  sight  of  the  case — 
that  his  interest  in  it  had  deepened,  rather  than 
cned ;  that  he  had  not  been  idle  during  all  this  long 
period ;  but  that  he  had  already  gathered  up  a  fact  or 
two  of  some  importance,  and  had  been  on  the  point  of 
Bending  for  me,  once  or  twice.  lie  had  n  trained,  wait- 
ing for  some  lights  to  culminate,  and  "now,  he  was 
glad  enough  to  get  hold  of  that  letter." 

He  informed  me  that  Leesy  Sullivan  was  living  quietly 
in  the  city,  sub-Ming  mostly  upon  donations  from  him- 
self, she  being  too  far  gone  with  consumption  to  exert 
herself  much  with  the  needle.  The  child  was  with  her, 
healthy  and  pretty. 

I  made  no  inquiries  after  James  Argyll,  but  he  told 
me  that  the  young  man  came  frequently  to  the  city  ; 
that,  for  a  while,  he  had  seemed  dispirited,  and  gambled 
desperately,  but  that  lately  he  was  looking  and  behav- 
ing better. 

"  It  is  my  impression,"  added  he,  "  that  he  is  about 
to  marry  one  of  his  cousins — probably  the  youngest. 
And  as  to  his  bad  habits,  I  caused  him  to  understand, 
indirectly,  that  if  they  wen-  not  reformed,  he  should  be 
convicted  of  them,  before  his  uncle.  This  I  did  (after 
I  became  convinced  that  he  would  marry  one  of  the 
young  ladies)  out  of  compassion  to  the  family." 

My  head  drooped  on  my  hand.  It  was  long  since  I 
had  any  tidings  of  the  Argylls — death  could  hardly 
have  created  a  more  barren  space  between  us.  Yet, 
now  that  I  heard  the  names  of  the  girls  mentioned,  a 
Hood  of  old  emotions  broke  over  mi-,  beneath  wliii-h  I 
struggled,  half-suffocated.  Keen  pain  shot  through  my 
heart  at  the  idea  of  Mary,  that  innocent,  most  sweet 
and  lovable  girl,  becoming  the  wife  of  James.  I  felt 


MEMORIES.  209 

as  if  it  ought  to  be  prevented,  yet  how  could  I  inter- 
fere ?  Why  should  I  wish  to  ?  I  recalled  the  hour 
when  she  had  flown  to  me — had  said,  "  I  believe  in 
you,  Richard;  ./love  you  !"  and  I  knew  that  I  had  put 
a  construction  upon  the  tearful,  passionate  words  of  her 
last  avowal,  which  was,  after  all,  not  warranted.  I  had 
feared  that  she  did  really  love  me,  and  that,  in  the  last 
moment  of  sorrow  and  trouble,  her  feelings  had  betray- 
ed themselves  to  her  own  comprehension — and  I  had 
felt  a  hope  that  it  was  not  so.  My  own  unanswered 
passion — my  lonely,  unmated  life — had  taught  me  sym- 
pathy ;  and  I  was  not  so  utterly  selfish  as  to  have  my 
personal  vanity  tickled  with  the  idea  that  this  young 
creature  loved  me,  who  did  not  love  her,  except  truly  as 
a  sister. 

Yet  now,  when  hearing  that  James  had  turned  from 
Eleanor  to  her,  I  felt  a  pang  of  pity — a  wish  that  she 
might  rather  have  loved  me  than  him  whose  cold,  de- 
ceitful bosom  could  never  be  a  safe  shelter  for  a  wo- 
man as  affectionate  as  Mary.  With  this  regret  I  felt  a 
triumph  that  Eleanor  had  remained  unassailable  on  the 
sublime  and  solitary  hight  of  her  sorrow.  It  was  what 
I  expected  of  her.  I  gloried  in  her  constancy  to  the 
dead.  I  had  loved  her  for  this  noble  beauty  of  her 
nature,  and  should  have  been  disappointed  had  the  test 
found  her  wanting  in  any  of  the  attributes  with  which 
my  worship  had  invested  her.  She  had  done  me  a 
w'rong  too  cruel  for  me  to  complain  about ;  but  I  would 
rather,  still,  that  she  would  wrong  me  than  herself. 

Lastly,  Mr.  Burton  assured  me  that  he  had  tidings 
of  the  five-hundred-dollar  bill  which  had  been  stolen 
from  Mr.  Argyll's  desk.  This  was,  indeed,  important, 
and  I  showed  by  my  looks  how  deeply  I  was  absorbed 
in  the  particulars.  That  bill  had  come  into  the  hands 
of  Wells,  Fargo  &  Co.,  about  six  months  after  the  rob- 
bery, having  been  sold  for  specie  to  their  agent  in  Call- 


210  TUB   DEAD   LETTER. 

fornia,  and  forwarded  to  them  along  with  the  other 
sums  which  they  were  constantly  receiving.  At  least, 
he  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  it  was  the  same  Mil,  it 
being  one  of  the  two  which  left  the  city  of  N'cw  York 
the  week  of  the  robbery;  the  other  he  had  traced  to 
St  Louis,  and  ascertained  that  no  possible  suspicious 
circumstances  attached  to  it. 

Wells,  Fargo  &  Co.  had  given  him  every  aoi-tanee 
in  their  power  to  discover  who  had  sold  that  bill  totho 
California  branch  of  their  house;  but  an  answer  had 
been  returned  from  there  that  the  person  who  disposed 
of  it  was  a  stranger,  on  his  way  to  the  mining  regions, 
Avhoin  they  had  never  seen  before  or  since,  and  whose 
name  they  had  not  taken.  The  clerk  who  transacted 
the  brief  business  with  him,  had  no  distinct  recoiled  ion 
of  him,  except  that  he  was  rather  a  thick-set  man,  with 
an  unpleasant  expression — doubtless  one  of  the  "hard 
"  so  frequent  in  the  precincts  of  San  Francisco. 

Of  course,  it  was  clear  to  us  two,  who  sat  in  com- 
pany with  the  dead-letter,  that  the  tive-hundrcd-dollar 
bill  was  a  part  of  the  sum  referred  to  by  the  writer  ; 
that  it  had  come  out  of  .Mr.  Argyll's  dok.  and  that  it 
was  blood-money  paid  fur  a  murder;  and  the  rerei\  er 
was  this  person  who,  in  the  letter,  so  explicitly  declared 
his  intention  of  fleeing  to  California.  We  were  much 
excited  in  the  presence  of  these  bold  facts.  In  our  en- 
thusiasm, then,  it  scenic. 1  ,  i,  :,  ], ;iMd  . 
the  continent  and  lay  it  upon  the  guilty.  We  scarcely 
realized  the  long  and  wearisome  pursuit  to  which  we 
were  doomed — the  slight  clue  which  we  had  to  the  in- 
dividual \\hose  deeds  were  yet  SO  patent  to  us. 

At    this   revelation   of  conspiracy,  my   mi: 
searched  about  for  the  accessory,  and  again  settled   it- 
self upon  Miss  Sullivan.     It  did   sc,.m    to  me  that  she 
had  thrown  a  glamour  over  the  usually  clear  si-jlit   of 
Air.  Burton;  so  that   1    resolved  to   keep  a  separate 


THE    OLD   FEIEKTX  .  211 

watch- which  should  not  be  influenced  by  his  decisions. 
While  I  was  thinking  of  this,  Mr.  Burton  was  walk- 
ing about  the  floor.  Suddenly  he  stopped  before  me 
and  looked  into  mine  Avith  those  vivid  eyes,  so  full  of 
power,  and  said,  as  confidently  as  if  a  vision  had  re 
vealed  it  to  him, 

"I  have  now  made  out  all  the  meaning  of  the  letter. 
In  the  first  place,  it  is  written  '  by  contraries ' — that  is, 
it  means  just  the  contrary  of  what  it  says.  The  con- 
tract was  fulfilled.  The  price  was  expected,  the  emi- 
gration decided  upon.  The  bright  day  was  a  i-ainy 
night ;  the  picture  taken  was  a  human  life.  And,  don't 
you  see  it,  Richard  ? — the  old  friend  was  the  hiding- 
place  of  the  instrument  of  death,  after  which  the  accom- 
plice is  directed  to  look.  That  instrument  is  the  broken 
tooth-pick.  It  was  secreted  in  the  pocket  of  the  old 
friend.  Now,  who  or  what  is  this  old  friend  ?  Rich- 
ard, didn't  Leesy  affirm  she  saw  a  man  descending  from 
the  old  oak  tree  at  the  right  of  the  Argyll  mansion,  out 
the  eveniug  of  the  murder  ?" 

"She  did." 

"  Then  that  is  it.  I  want  to  know  no  more.  The 
arms  are  the  arms  of  that  old  oak.  Unless  it  has  been 
removed,  which  is  not  probable,  since  this  letter  was 
never  received,  the  broken  knife  or  dagger  (of  which  I 
have  the  point  which  was  taken  from  the  wound),  will 
be  found  in  some  hollow  on  the  left  side  of  that  oak." 

I  gazed  at  him  in  astonishment ;  but  he,  unconscious 
of  my  wonder,  sat  down,  with  a  relieved,  almost  happy, 
expression. 


212  THE   DEAD   LETTEB, 


CHAPTER   II. 

OUR   VISITS. 

So  engrossed  were  we  by  our  plans,  Avhich  we  were 
laboring  to  get  into  shape,  that  we  forgot  the  passing 
hours  and  the  demands  of  appetite.  It  was  long  past 
the  lunch  hour  when  a  servant  appeared  to  ask  if  ho 
should  not  bring  in  the  tray,  having  waited  in  vain  for 
the  usual  summons.  With  its  appearance  Lenorc  came- 
in,  the  same  lovely,  sylph-like  little  creature,  but  look- 
ing rather  less  fragile  than  when  I  saw  her  last.  At 
the  sight  of  me,  her  color  went  and  came — one  instant 
she  hesitated,  then  approached  and  gave  me  her  hand, 
with  a  smile  and  kiss.  Her  lather  had  already  told  .-f 
her  having  made  two  or  three  visits  to  the  Argyll  man- 
sion within  the  time  of  my  :I!>M  nee  ;  and  I  attrilmte.l 
her  blushes,  upon  meeting  me.  to  her  frank  heart  ac- 
cusing her  of  the  disparaging  thoughts  she  had  enter- 
tained of  me.  The  subtle  induence  of  James  had 
doubtless,  without  any  n< •«•< -Mty  for  putting  the  ide:i 
into  word*,  warned  her  against  me  as  a  had  man  ;  luit 
now  as  she  looked  at  me,  she  was  sorry  lor  what  she 
had  felt,  and  disposed  to  renew  her  old  friendship. 

Before  lunch   was  concluded,  Mr.  Burton  fell  into  a 
reverie,  which  he  ended  by  saying, 

•  We  must  have  the  assistance  of  Lenore,  if  she  can 
give  us  any." 

I  felt  reluctant  to  see  the  child  placed  again  in  that 
unnatural  trance  ;  but  other  considerations  were  even 
weightier  than  our  fears  for  the  shock  to  her  nervous 
system  ;  and  after  she  had  chatted  a  while  with  Bfl 
had  sung  for  nSe,  Mr.  Burton  subjected  her  to  the  ex- 
periment. It  had  been  so  long  since  he  had  exercised 


"ALL  is  DARK  AND  UNCERTAIN."  213 

his  power  over  her,  that  it  required  a  greater  effort 
than  on  the  former  occasion  which  I  witnessed,  to  place 
her  in  the  desired  condition.  He,  however,  finally 
succeeded  perfectly.  The  dead-letter  was  placed  in  her 
hands,  when  we  observed  her  shrink  as  if  a  serpent  had 
glided  over  her  lap  ;  but  she  did  not  throw  it  down,  as 
she  seemed  moved  to  do. 

"  What  do  you  see,  Lenore  ?" 

"  It  is  too  dark  to  see.  A  lamp  shines  across  the 
walk,  and  I  see  a  man  dropping  the  letter  in  the  box. 
He  is  muffled  up  so  that  I  can  not  tell  about  his  face ; 
he  steals  up  and  goes  off  again  very  quickly." 

"  Follow  him,  Lenore." 

"  It  is  too  dark,  father.  I  am  lost  in  the  streets. 
Oh !  now  I  have  overtaken  him  again ;  he  walks  so 
fast — he  is  short  and  thick — he  looks  as  if  he  were 
afraid  of  something.  He  will  not  pass  the  police-officer, 
but  crosses  the  street,  and  keeps  in  the  shadow.  Now 
we  are  at  the  ferry — it  is  the  Fulton  Ferry — I  know  it 
well.  Oh,  dear  !  the  water  rises  and  the  wind  blows — 
it  is  getting  morning,  but  it  rains  so — and  the  water 
is  so  wild  I  can  not  make  my  way  on  to  the  boat." 

"  Don't  be  discouraged,  my  child.  I  would  give 
much  to  have  you  follow  him  across  the  river,  and  tell 
me  at  what  house  he  stops." 

"  The  wind  blows  so,"  continued  Lenore,  pitifully  ; 
"  all  is  dark  and  uncertain.  I  have  missed  him — I  do 
not  know  him  from  others." 

"  Try  again,  my  darling.  Look  well  at  the  let- 
ter." 

"  All  is  dark  and  uncertain,"  she  repeated,  in  a  vague 
tone. 

"  It  is  useless,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Burton,  in  a  burst  of 
disappointment ;  "  it  has  been  too  long  since  the  letter 
was  penned.  The  personality  of  the  writer  has  de- 
parted from  it.  If  she  had  only  been  able  to  pursue 


214  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

him  to  his  haunts,  our  investigations  in  that  vicinity 
might  have  richly  repaid  us." 

Finding  it  impossible  to  get  any  more  information, 
from  the  chilil,  she  was  relieved  from  her  trance,  stimu- 
lated with  a  glass  of  cordial,  and  sent  up  to  take  a 
siesta  before  -the  hour  for  dinner.  Scarcely  had  she 
left  the  library  before  I  sprung  to  my  feet,  exclaiming, 

"Good  heavens,  how  easy! — and  here  I  have  never 
thought  of  it." 

"  What  is  easy  ?" 

"  To  ascertain  who  is  the  John  Owen  who  calls  for 
tlu-e  letters  at  Peekskill.  Of  course — why,  what  a 
fool  I  am  !" 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  not  find  it  so  easy.  People 
carrying  on  a  correspondence  for  such  a  purpose,  do  not 
come  forward  openly  tor  their  letters— ami  this  was  :v 
good  while  ago — and  it  is  quite  possible  this  may  I.e. 
the  only  mi--ive  e\i-r  sent,  through  the  mail,  to  that 
address — and  this,  evidently,  was  never  called  for." 

At  least,  it  is  worth  inquiring  into,"  I  added,  less 
triumphantly. 

"  Of  course  it  is.  We  wish,  also,  to  ascertain  how 
the  letter  came  dr.-.gging  along  to  Washington  two 
years,  nearly,  behind  its  time.  I  pn»p.,se  that  we  start 
,>kill  by  the  early  morning  train." 
it,  even  until  morning,  seemed  too  tardy  for 
my  mood.  But  as  it  was  now  i'..nr  o'elobk,  and  I  had 
no  right  to  ask  the  detective  to  resign  his  dinner  and 
evening  comfort,  I  made  no  objection  to  the  time.  And, 
in  truth,  the  time  sped  more  swiftly  than  I  expected  J 
we  had  Still  so  much  to  discuss.  Dinner  came— and 
the  hour  of  retiring  followed— before  we  had  matured 
our  course  of  action.  We  were  to  go  to  Peekskill  and 
learn  all  possible  about  John  Owen.  If  we  gained  no 
important  information  there,  we  were  to  go  on,  in  the 
evening,  to  Blankville,  to  enter,  under  cover  of  tha 


AT   THE    WORK    AFRESH.  215 

darkness,  the  lawn  of  the  Argyll  house,  and  secure  the 
broken  knife  or  dagger,  which,  we  belio,ved,  we  should 
find  secreled  in  a  certain  oak  upon  the  premises.  This 
we  wished  to  do  without  the  knowledge  of  the  family, 
for  two  reasons:  the  smaller  one  of  which  was,  that  I 
did  not  wish  my  visit  to  be  made  known,  and  the  larger, 
that  we  both  were  cei'tain  we  could  prosecute  our  plans 
more  successfully  if  the  friends  knew  nothing  of  our 
efforts.  Then,  if  we  still  failed  to  discover  the  accom- 
plice, we  were  to  sail  for  California. 

The  reader  may  see  that  we  were  set  upon  the  ac- 
complishment of  our  purposes  by  the  willingness  with 
which  we  gave  time,  money  and  mind  to  our  object. 
I  had  first  proposed  the  visi*.  to  California,  avowing  my 
intention  to  make  it,  when  Mr.  Burton  had  surprised 
me  by  offering  to  be  my  companion.  This  was  a  sac- 
rifice which  I  could  not  have  asked  or  expected  of  him  ; 
but  he  would  not  allow  me  to  view  it  in  that  light, 
saying,  with  pleasant  peremptoriness,  that  Lenore  need- 
ed a  sea-voyage,  and  he  had  been  thinking  of  taking 
one  on  her  account.  He  would  make  it  a  pleasure-tour, 
as  well  as  one  of  business,  "  and  then,"  with  a  laugh 
which  would  have  been  satirical  if  it  had  not  been  so 
frank — "  he  was  afraid  my  mission  would  not  be  so 
successful,  if  undertaken  alone."  And  I  had  answered 
him  that  I  realized  my  own  inefficiency,  as  compared 
with  his  talent  and  experience — all  I  had  to  encourage 
me  was  the  devotion  with  which  I  undertook  my  work 
— to  that,  alone,  I  trusted  to  insure  me  some  reward. 
But  if  he  really  were  willing  to  go  with  me,  I  should 
feel  almost  elated. 

We  were  at  Peekskill  the  next  day  in  good  season. 
We  found  the  same  postmaster  in  service  who  had  been 
in  the  office  at  the  time  the  dead-letter  arrived  there. 
When  Mr.  Burton — I  lounging  carelessly  in  the  back- 
ground— showed  the  envelope  and  inquired  how  it  had 
10 


216  TUB    DEAD   LETTER. 

occurred  that  it  had  boon  forwarded  to  the  Department 
ot  this  late  hour,  the  official  showed  a  little  embarrass- 
ment, as  inferring  that  he  was  about  to  be  taken  to  task 
for  a  neglect  of  duty  by  some  indignant  individual. 

"I  will  tell  you  how  it  happened,  Mr.  Owen,"  .-aid 
he,  "if  yon' iv  tin-  person  addressed  on  that  envelope. 
You  never  cauie  for  the  letter,  and  before  the  expiration 
of  the  time  required  by  law  for  forwarding  it  to  \Va>h- 
ington,  it  got  slipped  into  a  crack,  and  was  never  dis- 
covered till  about  a  fortnight  ago.  You  see,  our  place 
here  wasn't  just  the  thing  for  .in  office ;  it  never  did  suit, 
and  this  month,  I  finally  had  new  boxes  and  shelves 
put  in,  and  the  room  fixed  up.  In  tearing  down  the 
old  fixings,  several  letters  were  discovered  which  had 
slipped  into  a  crack  between  the  shell' ami  wall.  This 
<ie  of  them.  I  thought,  '  belter  late  than  never,' 
though  at  first  I  had  a  mind  to  throw  them  into  the 
stove.  I  hope,  sir,  the  loss  of  the  letter  hasn't  put  you 
to  any  very  great  inconvcnie: 

"  It  was  of  some  importance,"  answered  my  compan- 
ion, in  a  commonplace  tone,  "and  I'm  not  sorry,  even 
yet,  to  have  recovered  it,  as  it  settles  a  matter  I  had 
been  in  doubt  about.  My  man  nm-t  have  been  very 
negligent;  I  certainly  sent  him  for  the  letter.  Don't 
you  remember  a  young  man,  a  coachman,  coming  for 
my  letters  ?" 

k-  lie  never  came  but  twice,  to  my  knowledge,"  an- 
swered the  postmaster,  giving  a  glance  of  curiosity  at 
the  speaker.  "  I  wondered  who  it  was  tin  \  were  for — 
not  being  any  one  that  I  knew — and  I  know  mostly 
everybody  in  the  district.  Traveling  through  our  town, 
perhaps  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  was  a  stranger,  who  merely  passed  two  or 
three  tiroes  through  your  village,  stopping  on  business. 
My  usual  address  is  New  York.  That  coachman  was 
lured  at  the  next  village  to  drive  me  about  the  country 


"A   SMALLISH    FELLOW?"  217 

a  few  days.  I  have  nearly  forgotten  him.  I  -would 
like  to  call  him  to  an  account  for  some  of  his  conduct 
which  was  not  satisfactory.  Can  you  describe  his  per- 
sonal appearance  ? — though,  I  suppose,  you  could  not 
have  taken  any  particular  notice  of  him." 

"  It  was  evening  on  both  occasions  of  his  calling. 
He  was  muffled  up  about  the  lower  part  of  the  face, 
and  his  cap  pulled  down.  I  couldn't  tell  you  a  thing 
about  him,  indeed,  except  that  he  had  black  eyes.  If 
I'm  not  mistaken,  he  had  black  or  dark  eyes.  I  think 
I  remember  of  their  looking  at  me  very  sharp  through 
the  window  here.  But  it  was  evening,  and  I  shouldn't 
mind  the  circumstance  at  all  if  I  had  not  wondered,  at 
the  time,  who  John  Owen  was.  It's  likely  the  fellow 
was  a  rogue — he  looked  kind  of  slippery." 

I,  listening  apart  to  the  conversation,  longed  to  ask 
if  this  muffled  driver  was  small  and  slender,  for  I  was 
thinking  of  a  woman.  While  I  was  studying  how  to 
propose  the  question  to  Mr.  Burton,  he  continued, 

"  A  smallish  fellow,  if  I  remember  rightly  ?  I  really 
wish  I  had  his  name." 

"  Can't  say  any  thing  more  about  it,"  was  the  reply 
of  the  postmaster.  "  I  couldu't  answer  if  he  were  large 
or  small,  white  or  black,  except  as  to  his  eyes,  which 
were  about  all  I  saw  of  him.  If  you  want  to  find  out 
about  him,  why  don't  you  go  to  the  livery-keeper  who 
furnished  your  team  to  you  ?  Of  course,  his  employer 
could  tell  you  all  you  want  to  know." 

"  That  would  be  the  most  sensible  course,"  answered 
the  detective,  with  a  laugh.  "  But,  my  good  friend,  it 

is  considerably  out  of  my  way  to  go  to  S ;  and  I 

must  leave  on  the  train  up,  in  half  an  hour.  After  all, 
the  matter  is  not  of  so  much  importance.  I  had  a  cu- 
riosity to  learn  what  had  kept  the  letter  so  long  on  its 
travels.  Good-day,  sir." 

It  never  entered  the  official's  thoughts  to  inquire  how 


218  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

we  cnme  in  possession  of  a  document  which  had  not 
been  returned  from  the  Dead-Let:., -r  IX'iurtment — nt 
least,  iu)t  while  we  remained  wit!)  him — though  ho 
may  afterward  have  puzzled  his  brains  over  the  affair. 

As  we  did  not  wish  to  arrive  in  IJlankville  until  after 
dark,  we  had  to  leave  the  car-  once  again,  and  to  get 
off  at  a  little  intermediate  station,  with  half  a  dozen 
houses  clustered  about  it ;  and  here  we  whiled  away, 
as  we  best  could,  several  tedious  hours",  whose  dreari- 
ness was  only  partially  soothed  by  the  influences  of 
such  a  supper  as  could  be  obtained  in  the  small  public- 
house  attached  to  the  depot. 

As  the  sun  drew  toward  setting  and  the  night  ap- 
proached, a  lierce  restlessness  thrilled  along  my  n.- 
That  peace— if  the  dullness  and  sluggishness  <>f  my 
chilled  feelings  could  be  called  peace— into  which  I  had 
forced  myself  for  many  months,  was  broken  up.  Tho 
mere  fact  of  my  nearness  to  the  spot  which  had 
been  so  dear  to  me,  overpowered  me  with  strong  at- 
tractions ;  the  force  of  habit  and  of  memory  was  at 
work;  and  when,  at  twilight,  the  train  stopped  and 
took  us  up,  my  mind  ran  on  before  tlie  iron-horse,  and 
WM  Ot  the  end  of  the  little  journey  before  the  com- 
mencement. I 'pon  arriving  at  Ulaukville,  we  descend- 
cd  the  rear  car  and  walked  up  toward  the  village,  with- 
out approaching  the  depot,  as  I  was  afraid  the  lamps 
might  betray  me  to  some  former  acquaintance.  It  was 
a  mild  evening,  early  in  September,  and  I  had  no  ex- 
cuse for  mu  filing  up  ;  sol  pulled  my  hat  down  over  my 
quite  sure  that  I  should  escape  recognition,  in  tho 
dim  moonlight,  which,  overblown  by  light,  thin  clouds, 
transfused  the  western  sky.  We  walked  about, in  quiet 
parts  of  the  village,  until  ten  o'clock;  and  then,  tho 
moon  having  set,  we  approached  the  Argyll  mansion, 
along  the  well-remembered  street.  I  know  not  if  my 
companion  guessed  my  disturbance,  as  I  passed  the 


THE    SEARCH.  219 

office  and  came  up  in  front  of  the  lawn,  black  be- 
neath the  starlight,  with  the  shadows  of  its  fine  old 
trees.  The  past  was  not  half  so  dead  as  I  had  got  in 
the  habit  of  believing  it — life  is  sweet  and  strong  in 
the  heart  of  youth,  which  will  endure  many  blows  be- 
fore it  will  cease  to  beat  with  the  tremulous  thrill  of 
hope  and  passion. 

A  bright  light  was  shining  from  the  windows  of  the 
parlor  and  several  of  the  other  rooms,  but  the  hall-door 
was  closed,  and  every  thing  was  so  quiet  about  the  prem- 
ises that  I  did  not  believe  I  ran  any  risk  in  entering 
the  gate  and  seeking  out  the  monarch  oak — a,  mighty 
tree,  the  pride  of  the  lawn,  which  stood  quite  to  one 
side  from  the  central  avenue  which  led  up  to  the  front 
portico,  and  only  some  thirty  feet  from  the  left  corner 
of  the  mansion,  which  was,  at  times,  almost  touched 
by  the  reach  of  its  outermost  branches.  We  advanced 
together  through  the  darkness,  it  being  the  understand- 
ing that,  should  any  accident  betray  our  visit,  before 
its  purpose  was  accomplished,  I  was  to  retreat,  while 
Mr.  Burton  would  boldly  approach  and  make  the  ex- 
cuse of  a  call  upon  Mr.  Argyll.  My  familiarity  with 
the  premises  and  my  superiority  in  the  art  of  climbing, 
made  the  duty  of  ascending  the  tree  devolve  upon  me. 
While  my  companion  stood  on  guard  beneath,  I  drew 
myself  up,  carefully  making  my  way  through  the  night, 
out  along  to  the  "  second  branch  to  the  left,"  feeling 
for  the  hollow  which  I  knew  existed — for,  in  my  more 
boyish  days,  I  had  left  no  possible  point  of  the  grand 
old  tree  unvisited.  Not  five  minutes  had  elapsed  since 
I  began  my  search,  before  my  fingers,  pressing  into  the 
ragged  cavity  of  the  slowly-decaying  limb,  touched  a 
cold  object  which  I  knew  to  be  steel.  My  hand  re- 
coiled with  an  instinctive  shudder,  but  returned  imme- 
diately to  its  duty,  cautiously  drawing  forth  a  slender 
instrument  of  which  I  could  not  make  out  the  precise 


220  THE    DEAD    LETTER. 

character.  Upon  raising  my  hca<l,  after  securing  the 
object  of  our  anxiety,  my  eyes  fell  upon  a  scene  which 
held  them  fascinated  for  so  loner  a  time  that  the  patience 
of  my  friend  at  the  foot  of  the  tree  must  have  keen. 
sorely  tried. 

The  windows  on  the  side  of  the  parlor  looking  on 
the  left  were  both  open,  the  chandeliers  lighted,  and 
from  my  airy  eyrie  in  the  tree,  I  commanded  a  full  view 
of  the  interior.  For  a  time  I  saw  but  one  person. 
Sitting  by  a  center-table,  directly  under  the  flood  of 
light  from  the  chandelier,  was  one  of  the  sisters,  read- 
ing a  book.  At  first — yes,  for  a  full  minute — I  thought 
it  was  Eleanor! — Eleanor  as  she  was,  when  the  homage 
of  my  soul  first  went  out  toward  her,  like  the  exhala- 
tion of  a  flower  to  the  sun — as  young,  as  blooming  .-.ml 
radiant  as  she  was  In-fore  the  destroyer  came — the  dew 
upon  the  lip,  the  light  on  the  brow,  the  glory  of  health, 
youth  and  joy  upon  every  feature  and  in  every  flow  of 
her  garments,  from  the  luster  of  her  hair  to  the  glimmer 
of  her  silken  slipper. 

"Can  it  be?"  I  murmured.  "Is  there  such  power 
of  resuscitation  in  human  vitality  as  this?" 

While  I  a>ked  myself  the  question.  I  was  undecided. 
(and  \\ondeivd  how  I  could  have  been  mistaken 
for  an  instant),  that  this  l>cautiful  woman  wa*   Mary, 
grown  so  like  her  <>!,;  luring  the  months  of 

my  absence,  as  to  bo  almost  the  counterpart  of  what 
Eleanor  had  l»een.  When  I  left  her  she  \v:is  a  girl, 
half-child,  half-woman,  bright  with  the  promi-e  of  rare 
sweetness;  and  now,  in  this  brief  summer  time  of  fif- 
teen months — BO  rapid  had  the  magic  culmination 
— she  had  expanded  into  t'  n  of  all  that  is 

loveliest  in  her  sex.  A  th<Mightfulness,  caused,  prob- 
ably, by  the  misfortune  which  had  befallen  the  house — 
a  shadow  from  the  cloud  which  wrapped  her  sister — 
toned  down  the  frolicsome  gayety  which  had  once 


THE    PICTURE.  221 

characterized  her,  and  added  the  grace  of  sentiment  to 
her  demeanor.  I  could  not  gaze  upon  the  fair,  meditative, 
brow  without  perceiving  that  Mary  had  gained  in  depth 
of  feeling  as  well  as  in  womanly  beauty.  She  wore  a 
dress  of  some  lustrous  fabric,  which  gleamed  slumber- 
-ously  in  the  yellow  light,  like  water  shining  about  a 
lily ;  as  she  bent  above  her  book,  her  hair  clustered 
about  her  throat,  softening  its  exquisite  outlines ;  so 
near,  so  vivid,  was  the  unconscious  tableau-vivant,  seen 
through  the  open  frame  of  the  window,  that  I  imagined 
I  heard  her  breathe,  and  inhaled  the  fragrance  linger- 
ing in  her  curls  and  handkerchief. 

While  I  gazed,  another  figure  glided  within  range  of 
my  vision.  Eleanor,  as  I  beheld  her  in  my  dreams, 
colorless,  robed  in  black,  young  still,  beautiful  still, 
but  crowned,  like  a  queen,  with  the  majesty  of  her  des- 
olation, which  kept  her  apart  from  sympathy,  though 
not  from  adoration.  Gliding  behind  her  sister's  chair, 
she  bent  a  moment  to  see  what  volume  had  such  attrac- 
tions, kissed  the  fair  face  turned  instantly  with  a  smile 
to  hers,  and  passed  away,  going  out  into  the  hall.  I 
had  heard  hew  low  "  good-night." 

Then,  almost  before  she  had  vanished,  came  the  third 
figure  into  the  picture.  James,  approaching  as  if  from 
some  sofa  where  he  had  been  lounging,  took  the  book 
from  Mary's  hand,  which  he  held  a  little,  saying  some- 
thing which  brought  blushes  to  her  cheeks.  Presently 
she  withdrew  her  hand ;  but  he  caught  it  again,  and 
kissed  it,  and  I  heard  him  say, 

"Oh!  Mary,  you  are  cruel  with  me — you  know 
it." 

Not  until  I  heard  him  speak,  did  it  rush  upon  me 
that  I  had  no  business  to  be  there,  spying  and  eaves- 
dropping. I  had  looked  at  first,  unconscious  of  the 
circumstances,  like  a  wandering  spirit  lingering  by  the 
walls  of  Eden,  gazing  upon  the  beauty  which  is  not 


222  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

within  its  sphere.  No  sooner  did  I  realize  rr.y  position 
than  I  began  to  descend  from  my  eyrie;  but  James 
had  drawn  his  cousin  from  her  chair,  and  the.  pair  ap- 
proached the  window,  and  stood  there,  their  eyes  fixed, 
apparently,  upon  that  very  point  in  the  giant  oak  where 
I  crouched,  suddenly  fear-blasted,  with  the  square  of 
light  from  the  window  illuminating  the  limb  where  I 
lay  concealed.  I  had  crawled  from  my  first  resting- 
place,  and  was  about  jumping  to  the  'ground,  when 
their  presence  transfixed  me,  in  the  most  dangerous 
possible  predicament.  I  dared  not  move  for  fear  of 
being  discovered.  I  was  paralyzed  by  a  lightning  con- 
sciousness that  should  I  then  and  there  IK-  betrayed,  I 
would  be  the  victim  of  a  singular  combination  of  cir- 
cumstantial evidence.  Found  lingering  at  night,  like  a 
thief,  upon  the  premises  of  those  I  had  injured ; 
stealthily  seeking  to  remove  the  evidence  of  my  guilt — 
the  weapon  with  which  the  murder  was  c.'imniued, 
hidden  by  me,  at  the  time,  in  this  tree,  and  now  sought 
for  in  order  to  remove  it  from  possible  disco \  ery — \\  ny, 
I  tell  you,  reader,  had  James  Argyll  sprung  upon  me 
there,  seized  the  knife,  accused  nuMiothhijf  u  ould  have 

,   me  from  condemnation.     The  probabilities  arc, 
that  the  ease  would  have  lx»en  so  very  conclusive,  and 
the  guilt  RO   horribly  aggravated,  that  the  p. •; 
would  have  taken  the  matter   in   their  own  hands,  and 
torn  me  to  pieces,  to  show  their  love  of  just:     .     K  . -\\ 
the  testimony  of  Mr.   llurton  would   not  ha\e   availed 
to  turn   the  lido   in   my  favor;  he  would 
accused  of  seeking  to  hide  my  sin,  and   his  reputation 
would  not  have  saved  him  from  the  ban  of;  :l>lic  opin- 
ion.     A  cold   sweat   broke  over  me  ns  I   thought   of  it. 

:he  fear  of  death,  nor  of  the  horror  of  the  world — 
but  dread  of  the  judgment  of  th- 

session  of  me.  If  this  statement  of  my  critical  posi- 
tion, when  the  trembling  of  a  bough  might  com 


"DID  i  PROMISE?"  223 

innocent  man,  should  make  ray  reader  more  though tful 
in  the  matter  of  circumstantial  evidence,  I  shall  be  re- 
paid for  the  pangs  which  I  then  endured. 

The  young  couple  stepped  out  upon  the  sward.  I  did 
not  trouble  myself  about  what  had  become  of  Mr. 
Burton,  for  I  knew  that  he  was  in  the  shadow,  and 
could  retreat  with  safety  ;  he,  doubtless,  felt  more  anx- 
iety about  me. 

"  Draw  your  scarf  up  over  your  head,  Mary,"  said 
James,  in  that  soft,  pleasant  voice  of  his,  which  made 
me  burn  with  dislike  as  I  heard  it — "  the  night  is  so 
warm,  it  will  not  harm  you  to  be  out  a  few  moments. 
Do  not  deny  me  a  little  interval  of  happiness  to- 
night." 

As  if  drawn  forward  more  by  his  subtle  will  than  by 
her  own  wish,  she  took  his  arm,  and  they  walked  back 
and  forth,  twice  or  thrice,  in  the  light  of  the  window, 
and  paused  directly  under  the  limb  of  the  tree,  which 
seemed  to  shake  with  the  throbbing  of  my  heai't.  A 
beam  of  light  fell  athwart  the  face  of  James,  so  that  I 
could  see  its  expression,  as  he  talked  to  the  young  crea- 
ture on  his  arm — a  handsome  face,  dark,  glowing  with 
passion  and  determination,  but  sinister.  I  prayed, 
in  my  heart,  for  Mary  to  have  eyes  to  read  it  as  I 
read  it. 

"  Mary,  you  promised  me  an  answer  this  week.  Give 
it  to  me  to-night.  You  have  said  that  you  would  be  my 
wife — now,  tell  me  how  soon  I  may  claim  you.  I  do 
not  believe  in  long  engagements  ;  I  want  to  make  you 
mine  before  any  disaster  comes  between  us." 

"  Did  I  promise  you,  James  ?  I  really  did  not  know- 
that  you  considered  what  I  said  in  the  light  of  a  prom- 
ise. Indeed,  I  am  so  young,  and  we  have  always  been 
such  friends — cousins,  you  know — that  I  hardly  under- 
stand my  own  feelings.  I  do  wish  you  would  not  over- 
persuade  me  ;  we  might  both  be  sorry.  I  never  believed 
10* 


224  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

in  the  marriage  of  cousins  ;   so  I  do  not  think  you 
ought  to  t'c-cl  hurt,  cousin  James." 

IK-  interrupted  the  tremulous  voice  with  one  a  little 
sharper  than  his  first  persuasive  tone  : 

"  I  am  surprise.il  that   you  do  net   feel  that   I   regard 
you  as  already  betrothed  to  me.     I  did  not  think 
•were  a  coquette,  Mary.     And,  as  for  cousinship,  I  have 
already  told  you  what  I  think  of  it.     I  know  the  secret 
of  your  reluctance — shall  I  betray  it  to  you  ?" 

She  was  silent. 

"  Your  heart  is  still  set  on  that  scoundrel.  One 
might  suppose  that  dread  and  loathing  would  be  the 
only  sentiment  you  could  entertain  toward  a  traitor 
and — I  will  not  speak  the  word.  Mary.  You  took  up 
swords  in  his  defense,  and  persisted  in  accusing  us  of 
wronging  him,  against  the  judgment  of  your  own  father 
and  friends.  I  suspected,  then,  by  the  warmth  of  your 
avowed  friendship  for  him,  that  he  had,  among  his 
other  honorable  de«-d>.  gained  my  little  cousin's  heart, 
for  the  pleasure  of  Mattering  his  self-love.  And  I  shall 
i-t,  if  you  persist,  in  putting  me  oil,  when  y«-u 
know  that  your  father  desires  our  union,  and  that  my 
whol-'  Ifl  wrapped  up  in  you,  that  he  still  holds 

it,  despite  of  what   has  pass*!."1 

"  He  never  'gained  '  my  heart  by  unfair  means."  said 
the  girl,  speaking  proudly.  "  I  </<r>-<  him  what  he  had 
of  it — and  he  never  knew  how  large  a  part  that  was. 
1  wish  he  /i 'til  known,  p.iov  Kiehard  !  for  I  still  believe 
that  you  are  all  wronging  him  cruelly.  I  am  /</.< / 
James,  and  it  hurts  me  to  hear  you  speak  so  of  him. 
lint  that  would  not  prevent  my  being  your  friend,  too, 
cousin — " 

"  You  must  not  say  '  cousin,'  .v_rriin,  Mary.     I'm  worn 
out,  now,  and  half  mail  with  my  ;' 

me  desperate.     One   thing  is  certain:  I   can   not   May 
any  longer  where  you  arc,  if  you  continue  so  undecided. 


Page  zzj. 


IN   THK   OAK. 


THE   PROMISE   GIVEN.  225 

I  want  a  final  answer  to-night.  If  it  is  unpropitious, 
F  shall  go  away  to-morrow,  and  seek  for  such  poor  for- 
tune as  may  be  mine,  in  some  other  part  of  the  world." 

"  But  what  will  father  do  without  you,  James  ?" 

There  was  distress  and  a  half-yielding  cadence  in 
Mary's  voice. 

"  That  is  for  you  to  think  of." 

"  His  health  is  failing  so  rapidly  of  late  ;  and  he  leans 
so  much  upon  you — trusts  every  thing  to  you.  I  am, 
afraid  it  would  kill  him  to  have  all  his  hopes  and 
plans  again  frustrated.  He  has  never  recovered  from 
the  shock  of  Henry's  death,  and  Richard's  —  going 
away." 

"  If  you  think  so,  Mary,  why  do  you  any  longer 
hesitate  ?  You  acknowledge  that  you  love  me  as  a 
cousin — let  me  teach  you  to  love  me  as  a  lover.  My 
sweetest,  it  will  make  us  all  so  happy." 

But  why  should  I  try  to  repeat  here  the  arguments 
which  I  heard  ? — the  main  burden  of  which  was  the 
welfare  and  wishes  of  her  father  and  sister — mingled 
with  bursts  of  tender  entreaty — and,  what  was  more 
powerful  than  all,  the  exercise  of  that  soft  yet  terrible 
will  which  had  worked  its  way,  thus  far,  against  all  ob- 
stacles. Suffice  it,  that  when  the  cousins  at  last — after 
what  seemed  to  me  an  age,  though  it  could  not  have 
Veu  twenty  minutes — returned  through  the  window, 
I  had  heard  the  promise  of  Mary  to  become  the  wife  of 
James  before  the  beginning  of  another  year. 

Never  was  a  man  more  glad  to  release  himself  from 
an  unpleasant  predicament  than  I  was  to  descend  from 
my  perch  when  the  two  figures  had  passed  within  the 
house.  My  fear  of  discovery  had  become  absorbed  in 
my  keen  shame  and  regret  at  being  compelled  to  play 
the  eavesdropper  to  a  conversation  like  that  which  I 
had  overheard.  Moving  a  few  paces  in  the  shadow  of 
the  trees,  I  whispered — "  Burton." 


226  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

"  Got  yourself  into  a  pretty  scrape,"  was  instantly 
answered,  in  a  low  tone,  as  my  friend  took  my  arm  and 
we  moved  forward  to  the  gate.  "  I  didn't  know  but 
A\  -c  should  have  a  tragico-coinedy  upon  the  spot,  im- 
promptu and  highly  interesting." 

"  I  almost  wonder  that  you  are  not  too  greatly  out 
of  patience  with  waiting  to  jest  about  the  matter." 

"  I've  told  you  my  motto — '  learn  to  wait,'  Richard. 
The  gods  will  not  be  hurried ;  but  liavo  you  the 
knife  ?" 

"  Ay !"  was  my  grim  answer ;  I  felt  grim,  as  I  gray- 
ed the  treacherous,  murderous  thing  which  had  wrought 
such  deadly  mischief.  The  sound  of  shutters  drawn 
together  startled  us  into  a  quicker  pace ;  we  looked 
back  and  saw  the  lower  part  of  the  house  dark — hur- 
ried forward,  and  without  any  molestation,  or  our  pres- 
ence in  Ulankville  being  known  to  a  single  acquaintance, 
took  the  night-train  back  to  New  York,  which  we 
reached  about  two,  A.  M..  ami  were  at  Mr.  Burton's 
house,  ringing  up  the  surpnsed  servants,  shortly  after. 

It  was  not  until  we  were  in  the  library,  with  the 
doors  closed,  and  the  full  blaze  of  a  g:  urned 

on,  that  I  took  from  ray  pocket  the  weapon,  and  handed 
it  to  my  companion. 

Both  of  us  bent  curiously  forward  to  examine  it. 

"  This,"  said  the  detective,  in  a  surprised  and  some- 
what agitated  tone,  "  is  a  surgical  instrument.  You 
sec,  it  is  quite  unlike  a  common  knit'c.  It  corroborates 
one  of  my  conclusions.  I  told  you  the  blow  was  dealt 
by  a  practiced  hand — it  has  been  dealt  by  one  skilled  in 
anatomy.  There's  another  link  in  my  chain.  1  hope  I 
hh:tl I  have  patience  until  I  shall  have  forged  it  together 
nlmut  the  guilty." 

"  There  is  no  longer  any  doubt  about  the  dead-letter 
referring  to  the  murder.  You  sco  the  instrument  is 
broken,"  I  remn: 


EXtTLTATION.  227 

"  N"o  doubt,  indeed,"  and  Mr.  Burton  went  to  a 
drawer  of  a  secretary  standing  in  the  room,  and  took 
out  the  little  piece  of  steel  which  had  been  found  in 
Henry  Moreland's  body. 

"  You  see  it  is  the  very  fragment.  I  obtained  this 
important  bit  of  evidence,  and  laid  it  away,  after  others 
had  given  up  all  efforts  to  make  it  available.  How  for- 
tunate that  I  preserved  it !  So,  the  wedding  is  to  take 
place  within  three  months,  is  it  ?  Richard,  we  must 
not  rest  now.  A  great  deal  can  be  done  in  three 
months,  and  I  would  give  all  the  gold  I  have  in  bank 
to  clear  this  matter  up  before  that  marriage  takes  place. 
Should  that  once  be  consummated  before  we  are  satis- 
fied with  our  investigations,  I  shall  drop  them  for  ever. 
A  doctor — a  doctor  " — he  continued,  musingly — "  I 
knew  the  fellow  had  half-studied  some  profession — he 
was  a  surgeon — yes  !  By  George  !"  he  exclaimed,  pre- 
sently, leaping  from  his  chair  as  if  he  had  been  shot, 
and  walking  rapidly  across  the  room  and  back. 

I  knew  he  was  very  much  excited,  for  it  was  the 
first  time  I  had  heard  him  use  any  expression  like  the 
above.  I  waited  for  him  to  tell  me  what  had  flashed 
into  his  mind  so  suddenly. 

"  The  fellow  who  married  Leesy's  cousin,  and  ran 
away  from  her,  Avas  a  doctor — Miss  Sullivan  has  told 
me  that.  Richard,  I  begin  to  see  light ! — day  is  break- 
ing!" 

I  hardly  knew  whether  his  speech  was  figurative  or 
literal,  as  day  was  really  breaking  upon  us  two  men, 
plotting  there  in  the  night,  as  if  we  were  the  criminals 
instead  of  their  relentless  pursuers. 

"  Three  months !  There  will  be  time,  Richard !"  and 
Mr.  Barton  actually  flung  his  arms  about  me,  in  a  burst 
of  exultation. 


228  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 


CHAPTER   III. 

THE    COXFESSION. 

Ix  the  afternoon  we  paid  Miss  Sullivan  a  visit.  It  was 
the  first  time  I  had  met  her  since  that  strange  night 
of  watching  at  Moreland  villa ;  and  I  confess  that  I 
could  not  meet  her  without  an  inward  shudder  of  ab- 
horrence. Unbounded  as  was  my  respect  and  confi- 
dence for  Mr.  Burton,  I  did  think  that  he  had  erred  in 
his  conclusions  as  to  the  character  of  this  woman;  or 
else  that  he  concealed  from  me  his  real  opinions,  for 
some  purpose  to  be  explained  at  the  proper  time.  If 
he  still  had  suspicions,  it  was  evident  that  he  had  kept 
them  from  their  object  as  skillfully  as  from  me,  for  I 
paw,  by  her  manner  of  receiving  him,  that  she  regarded 
him  as  a  friend. 

Notwithstanding  I  had  been  informed  of  her  rapidly- 
failing  health,  I  was  shocked  at  the  change  in  Miss 
Sullivan  since  I  had  seen  her.  It  was  with  an  effort 
that  she  rose  from  her  easy-chair  at  our  approach  ;  the 
fullness  had  all  wasted  from  her  naturally  queenly 
figure;  her  cheeks  were  hollow,  and  aflame  with  the 
fire  of  fever;  while  those  black  eyes,  which  had  ever 
Bcemed  to  smolder  above  unfathomable  depths  of  vol- 
canic passion,  now  almost  bla/ed  \\itli  light.  Some- 
thing like  a  smile  flitted  across  her  face  \\lnn  she  B&vr 
my  companion,  but  smiles  were  too  strange  there  to 
feel  at  home,  and  it  vanished  as  soon  as  seen.  I  do  not 
think  she  liked  me  any  better  than  I  did  her;  each  re- 
coiled from  the  other  instinctively  ;  she  would  not  have 
sjiokcn  to  me  had  I  come  alone  ;  but  out  of  conc» 
to  the  presence  of  her  friend,  she  bowed  to  me  and 
asked  me  to  be  seated.  A  little  child  iu  the  room  ran 


THE   BLESSING   OP  THE   PEIENDLES3.  229 

to  Mr.  Burton,  ns  if  expecting  the  package  of  bon-bons 
which  lie  took  from  his  pocket ;  but,  as  he  became  en- 
gaged in  conversation  with  Leesy,  I  coaxed  her  over  to 
me,  where  she  was  soon  sitting  on  my  knee.  She  was 
a  pretty  little  girl,  about  three  years  old,  in  whose 
chubby  little  features  I  could  no  longer  trace  any  re- 
semblance to  her  "  aunt."  She  prattled  after  the  fashion 
of  children,  and  in  listening  to  her,  I  lost  a  remark  or 
t\vo  of  Mr.  Burton's  ;  but  soon  had  my  attention 
aroused  by  hearing  Miss  Sullivan  exclaim, 

"  Going  away  !     For  how  long  ?" 

"  Three  months,  at  least." 

Her  hands  sunk  in  her  lap,  and  she  became  pale  and 
agitated. 

"  It  is  presumptuous  in  me  to  dare  to  be  sorry ;  I 
am  nothing  to  you ;  but  you  are  much  to  me.  I  don't 
know  how  we  shall  get  along  without  you." 

"  Don't  be  uneasy  about  that,  my  child.  I  shall 
make  arrangements  with  this  same  person  who  boards 
you  now  to  keep  you  until  my  return,  and,  if  you  should 
fall  sick,  to  take  good  care  of  you." 

"  You  are  far  too  good,"  she  responded,  tremulously. 
"  You  will  have  the  blessing  of  the  friendless.  I  only 
wish  it  had  the  power  to  bring  yon  good  luck  on  your 
journey." 

"  Perhaps  it  will,"  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "  I  "have  a 
great  deal  of  faith  in  such  blessings.  Bat,  Leesy,  I 
think  you  can  assist  my  journey  in  even  a  more  tan- 
gible way  than  that." 

She  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  all  and  every  thing  you  know- 
about  the  father  of  little  Nora." 

"  Why,  sir  ?"  she  quickly  asked.  "I  hope  you  have 
not  heard  from  him,"  looking  over  toward  the  child,  as 
if  afraid  it  might  be  snatched  from  her. 

"  Your  health  is  very  far  gone,  Leesy ;  I  suppose  you 


230  THE   DEAD  LETTEB. 

hardly  hope  ever  to  recovcr.it.  "Would  yon  not  be 
glad  to  see  Nora  under  her  father's  protection  before 
you  were  taken  away?" 

She  stretched  out  her  arms  for  the  child,  who  slid  off 
my  knoe,  ran  and  climbed  into  her  lap,  where  she  held 
the  curly  head  close  to  her  bosom  for  a  moment ;  her 
attitude  was  as  if  she  sheltered  the  little  one  from 
threatened  danger. 

"I  know,  much  more  surely  than  anyone  else,  that 
my  days  are  numbered.  I  believe  I  shall  never  see 
your  face  again,  Mr.  Burton ;  and  that  was  what 
grieved  me  when  you  spoke  of  going  away— it  was  not 
that  I  thought  of  my  comfort  so  much.  The  winter 
snow  will  hide  me  before  you  come  back  from  your 
journey  ;  and  my  darling  will  be  left  friendless.  I  know 
it — it  is  my  only  care.  But  I  would  rather,  far  rather, 
leave  her  to  the  cold  chanty  of  an  orphan  asylum — yes, 
I  would  rather  turn  her  upon  the  street,  with  her  inno- 
cent face  only  for  a  protector — than  that  her  father 
should  have  aught  to  do  with  Nora." 

"Why?" 

"Because  he  is  a  bad  man." 

"  I  understand  that  he  is  in  California  ;  and  as  I  am 
going  to  San  Francisco,  and  perhaps  shall  visit  the 
mining  regions  before  my  return,  I  thought  you  mijjht 
wish  to  send  him  a  message,  telling  him  the  child's 
condition.  He  may  have  laid  up  money  by  this  time, 
and  be  able  to  send  you  a  sura  sufficient  to  provide  for 
little  Nora  until  she  is  old  enough  to  take  care  of  her- 
self." 

She  only  shook  her  head,  drawing  the  child  closer, 
with  a  shudder. 

•4I  have  forgotten  his  name,"  said  Mr.  Burton. 

"I  will  not  tell  you,"  answi -rnl  Mi-^  Sullivan,  with  a 
return  of  the  old  fierceness,  like  that  of  a  hunted  ]  an- 
ther. "  Why  can  I  never,  never,  never  be  let  alone  ?" 


231 

"  Do  you  think  I  would  do  any  thing  for  yonr  injury 
or  disadvantage  ?"  asked  the  detcetive,  in  that  gentle 
yet  penetrating  voice  which  had  such  power  to  move 
people  to  his  will. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  cried ;  "  you  have  seeijTed  to 
be  my  friend.  But  how  do  I  know  that  it  is  not  all 
simply  to  compass  my  destruction  at  last  ?  You  have 
brought  into  my  house  *ffiat  person,"  looking  at  me, 
"  who  has  persecuted  me.  You  promised  me  that  I 
should  be  free  from  him.  And  now  you  want  to  set  a 
bloodhound  on  my  track — as  if  I  must  be  driven  into 
my  grave,  and  not  allowed  to  go  in  peace." 

"  I  assure  you,  Leesy,  I  had  no  idea  that  you  re- 
garded Nora's  father  with  so  much  dislike.  I  have  no 
object  in  the  world  in  troubling  you  with  him.  I  prom- 
ise you  that  no  word  of  mine  shall  give  him  the  clue  to 
your  present  circumstances,  nor  to  the  fact  that  he  has 
a  child  living,  if  he  is  ignorant  of  it.  You  shall  be 
protected — you  shall  have  peace  and  comfort.  What  I 
would  like  is,  that  you  shall  give  me  a  history  of  his 
life,  his  habits,  character,  where  he  lived,  what  was  his 
business,  etc. ;  and  I  will  give  you  my  reasons  for 
W'ishing  the  information.  A  circumstance  has  come  to 
light  which  connects  him  with  an  affair  which  I  am  in- 
vestigating— that  is,  if  he  is  the  person  I  think  he  is — 
a  sort  of  a  doctor,  I  believe  ?" 

Miss  Sullivan  did  not  answer  the  question  so  skill- 
fully put ;  she  still  watched  us  with  shining,  half-sullen 
eyes,  as  if  ready  to  put  forth  a  claw  from  the  velvet,  if 
we  approached  too  near. 

"  Come,  Leesy,  you  must  tell  me  what  I  want  to 
hear."  Mr.  Burton's  air  was  now  that  of  a  master. 
"  Time  is  precious.  I  can  not  wait  upon  a  woman's 
whim.  I  have  promised  you — and  repeat  it,  upon  my 
honor — that  no  annoyance  or  injury  shall  come  to  you 
through  what  you  may  tell  me.  If  you  prefer  to 


232  THE   DEAD  LETTER. 

answer  me  quietly  to  being  compelled  to  answer  before 
n  court,  all  is  right.  I  must  know  what  I  desire  about 
this  man." 

"  M'in,  Mr.  Burton  !     Call  him  creature." 

"  Very  well,  creature,  Leesy.  You  know  him  better 
than  I  do,  and  if  you  say  he  is  a  creature,  I  suppose  I 
may  take  it  for  granted.  His  name  is  —  " 

"Or  was,  George  Thorley." 

When  the  name  was  spoken,  I  gave  'a  start  which 
attracted  the  attention  of  both  my  companions. 

"  You  probably  know  something  about  him,  Mr. 
Redfield,"  remarked  the  girl. 

"  George  Thorley,  of  Blankville,  who  used  to  have 
an  apothecary  shop  in  the  lower  part  of  the  village, 
and  who  left  the  place  some  three  years  ago,  to  escape 
the  talk  occasioned  by  a  suspicious  case  of  malpractice, 
in  which  he  was  reported  to  be  concerned  ?" 

"The  same  person,  sir.     Did  you  know  him  ?" 

"I  can  not  say  that  I  was  acquainted  with  him.  I 
do  not  remember  that  I  ever  spoke  a  word  with  him. 
But  I  knew  him,  by  sight,  very  well.  Ho  had  a  face 
which  made  people  look  twice  at  him.  I  think  I  bought 
some  tritles  in  his  shop  once.  And  the  gossip  there 
•was  about  him  at  the  time  he  ran  away,  fixed  his  name 
in  my  memory.  I  wns  almost  a  stranger  then  in 
Blankville  —  had  lived  there  only  about  a  year." 

'•  How  did  he  come  to  have  any  connection  with 
your  family,  Leesy  ?" 

Miss  Sullivan  had  grown  pale  during  the  agitation 
of  our  talk,  but  she  flushed  again  at  the  question,  hesi- 
tated, and  finally,  looking  the  detective  full  in  the  eyes, 


"Since  you  have  promised,  upon  your  honor,  not  to 
disturb  me  any  further  about  this  matter,  and  hinee  I 
am  under  obligations  to  you,  sir,  which  I  can  not  for- 
get, I  will  tell  you  the  rest  of  the  story,  a  part  of 


THE   BEGI2TS1JTQ.  233 

which  I  told  yon  that  morning  at  Moreland  villa.  I 
coni'essed  to  you,  there,  the  secret  of  ray  own  heart,  as 
I  never  confessed  it  to  any  but  God,  and  I  told  you 
something  of  my  cousin's  history  to  satisfy  you  about 
the  child.  I  will  now  tell  you  all  I  know  of  George 
Thorley,  which  is  more  than  I  wish  I  knew.  The  first 
time  I  ever  saw  him  was  over  four  years  ago,  a  short 
time  after  he  set  up  his  little  shop,  which,  you  recollect, 
was  not  far  from  my  aunt's  in  Blankville.  My  aunt 
sent  me,  one  evening,  for  something  to  relieve  the 
toothache,  and  I  went  into  the  nearest  place,  which 
vas  the  new  one.  There  was  no  one  in  but  the  owner. 
I  was  surprised  by  the  great  politeness  with  Avhich  he 
treated  me,  and  the  interest  he  seemed  to  take  in  the 
case  of  my  aunt.  He  was  a  long  time  putting  up  the 
medicine,  pasting  the  label  on,  and  making  change,  so 
that  I  thought  my  aunt  would  surely  be  out  of  temper 
before  I  could  bring  her  the  drops.  He  asked  our 
name,  and  where  we  lived,  which  was  all,  I  thought, 
but  a,  bit  of  his  blarney,  to  get  the  good  will  of  his 
customers."  (Miss  Sullivan  usually  spoke  with  great 
propriety,  but  occasionally  a  touch  of  her  mother's 
country,  in  accent  or  expression,  betrayed  her  Irish 
origin.)  "  That  was  the  beginning  of  our  acquaint- 
ance, but  not  the  end  of  it.  It  was  but  a  few  days 
before  he  made  an  excuse  to  call  at  our  house.  I  was 
a  young  girl,  then,  gay  and  healthy;  and  the  plain 
truth  of  it  is  that  George  Thorley  fell  in  love  with  me. 
My  aunt  was  very  much  flattered,  telling  me  I  would 
be  a  fool  not  to  encourage  him — that  he  was  a  doctor 
and  a  gentleman — and  would  keep  his  wife  like  a  lady 
— that  there  would  bo  no  more  going  out  to  sew  and 
slave  for  others,  if  I  were  once  married  to  him  ;  it  was 
only  what  she  expected  of  me,  that  I  would  at  least  be 
a  doctor's  wife,  after  the  schooling  she  had  given  me, 
and  with  the  good  looks  I  had.  It  is  no  vanity  in  me, 


234  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

now,  to  say  of  this  clay,  so  soon  to  be  mingled  with 
the  dust  of  the  earth,  that  it  was  beautiful — too  much 
so,  alas,  for  my  own  peace  of  mind — for  it  made  me 
despise  the  humble  and  honest  suitors  who  mi<;ht  have 
secured  me  a  lowly,  happy  life.  Yet  it  was  not  that, 
either,  and  I'll  not  demean  myself  to  say  so — it  was 
not  because  I  was  handsome  that  I  held  myself  aloof 
from  those  in  my  own  station  ;  it  was  because  I  felt 
that  I  had  thoughts  and  tastes  they  could  not  under- 
stand— that  my  life  was  above  theirs  in  hope,  in  aspira- 
tion. I  was  ambitious,  but  only  to  develop  the  best 
that  was  in  me.  If  I  could  only  be  a  needle-woman  all 
my  day,  then  I  would  be  so  skillful  and  so  fanciful 
with  my  work,  as  almost  to  paint  pictures  with  my 
needle  and  thread.  Hut  this  isn't  telling  you  about 
George  Thorlcy.  From  the  first  I  took  a  dislike  to 
him.  I'm  not  good  at  reading  character,  but  I  under- 
stood his  pretty  thoroughly,  and  I  was  afraid  of  him. 
I  was  very  cold  to  him,  for  I  saw  that  he  wa*  of  a  quirk 
temper,  and  I  did  not  mean  he  should  say  that  I  had 
ever  encouraged  him.  I  told  my  aunt  I  did  not  think 
he  was  a  gentleman — I  had  ceen  plenty  of  iv.il  gentle- 
men in  the  houses  where  I  sewed,  and  they  were  not 
like  him.  I  told  her,  too,  that  he  had  a  violent  temper, 
and  a  jealous  disposition,  and  could  not  make  any  wo- 
man happy.  Hut  she  would  not  think  of  him  in  that 
light;  her  heart  was  set  on  the  apothecary's  shop, 
which,  she  said,  would  grow  into  a  fine  druir-Moiv  with 
the  doctor's  name  in  gilt  letters  on  the  door  of  his 
office. 

*'  George  soon  offered  himself,  and  was  terribly  angry 
when  I  refused  him.  I  believe  he  loved  me,  in  his  self- 
U!i  way,  better  than  he  loved  any  other  human  - 
turc.  He  would  not  give  me  up,  nor  allow  me  any 
peace  from  his  persecutions.  He  doir^rd  mv  >tcps 
whenever  I  went  out,  and  if  I  spoke  to  any  other  man, 


JEALOUSY.  235 

it  put  him  in  a  rage.  I  got  to  feeling  that  I  was 
watched  all  the  time  ;  for  sometimes  he  wculd  laugh  in 
his  hateful  way,  and  tell  me  of  things  he  had  seen  when 
I  thought  him  miles  away. 

"  Twice,  in  particular,  I  remember  of  his  being  in  a 
savage  passion,  and  threatening  me.  It  was  after" — 
here  the  speaker's  voice,  despite  of  her  etforts  to  keep 
it  steady,  trembled  and  sunk — "  he  had  seen  me  riding 
out  in  the  carriage  with  Mrs.  Moreland.  He  said  those 
people  were  making  a  fool  of  me — that  I  was  so  set  up, 
by  their  attentions,  as  to  despise  him.  I  told  him  that 
if  I  despised  him,  it  was  not  for  any  such  reason.  It 
was  because  he  behaved  so  ungentlemanly  toward  me, 
spying  around  me,  when  he  had  no  business  whatever 
with  my  affairs.  That  made  him  madder  than  ever, 
and  he  muttered  words  which  I  did  not  like.  I  told 
him  I  was  not  afraid  of  any  mortal  thing,  and  I  didn't 
think  he  would  frighten  me  into  marrying  him.  He 
said  he  would  scare  me  yet,  so  that  I  would  never  get 
over  it.  I  think  he  liked  the  spirit  I  showed  ;  it  seemed 
the  more  I  tried  to  make  him  hate  me,  the  more  de- 
termined he  was  to  pursue  me.  I  don't  know  how  it 
was  that  I  understood  him  so  well,  for  in  those  days 
there  had  been  nothing  whispered  against  his  character. 
Indeed,  people  didn't  know  much  about  him ;  and  he 
got  himself  into  the  good  graces  of  some  of  the  leading 
citizens  of  Blankville.  He  had  told  me  something  of 
his  history ;  that  is,  that  his  family  were  English  ;  that 
he,  like  myself,  was  an  orphan ;  that,  by  dint  of  good 
luck,  he  had  got  a  place  in  a  doctor's  office  in  one  of 
the  towns  in  this  State — one  of  those  humble  situations 
where  he  was  expected  to  take  care  of  the  physician's 
horse,  drive  the  carriage,  put  up  medicines,  attend  upon 
orders,  and  any  thing  and  every  thing.  He  was  smart 
and  quick  ;  he  had  many  hours  of  leisure  when  waiting 
behind  the  little  counter,  and  these  hours  he  spent  in 


230  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

studying  the  doctor's  books,  which  he  managed  to  get 
hold  of  one  at  a  time.  By  these  means,  and  by  observ- 
ing keenly  the  physician's  methods,  his  advice  to  pa- 
tients who  called  at  the  office,  and  by  reading  and 
putting  up  prescriptions  constantly,  he  picked  up  a 
really  sin-prising  smattering  of  science.  Making  up 
his  mind  to  be  a  doctor,  and  to  keep  a  drug-store  (a 
profitable  business,  he  knew)'  he  had  the  energy  to 
carry  out  his  plans.  How  he  finally  obtained  the  cap- 
ital to  set  up  the  little  business  in  Blankville,  I  never 
understood,  but  I  knew  that  he  attended  lectures  on 
surgery,  one  winter,  in  New  York,  and  was  in  a  hos- 
pital there  a  short  time.  All  this  was  lair  enough,  and 
proved  him  ambitious  and  energetic  ;  but  I  did  not  like 
or  trust  him.  There  was  something  dark  and  hidden 
in  the  workings  of  his  mind,  from  whieh  I  shrunk.  I 
knew  him,  too,  to  be  cruel.  I  could  sec  it  in  his  man- 
ner of  treating  children  and  animal:- ;  there  was  noth- 
ing he  liked  so  well  as  to  practice  his  half-learned  art 
of  surgery  upon  some  unfortunate  sufferer.  The  more 
he  insisted  on^my  liking  him,  the  more  I  grew  to  dread 
him. 

"  Affairs  were  at  this  crisis  when  my  cousin  camo 
from  New  York  to  pay  my  aunt  a  visit.  Coming  to 
our  rooms  almost  every  evening,  of  course  he  made  her 
acquaintance  immediately.  For  the  purpose  of  making 
me  jealous,  he  began  to  pay  the  most  devoted  attention 
to  her.  Nora  wa*  a  pretty  girl,  with  blue  eyes  and 
fair  hair  ;  an  innocent-minded  thing,  not  very  sharp, 
apprenticed  to  a  milliner  in  the  city ;  she  believed  all 
that  Doctor  Thorley  told  her,  and  fell  in  love  with  him, 
of  coarse.  When  she  went  away,  after  her  little  holi- 
day, George  found  that,  instead  of  provoking  me  to 
jealousy,  he  had  only  roused  my  temper  at  the  way  he 
had  fooled  Nora.  I  scolded  him  well  for  it,  and  ended 
by  telling  him  that  I  never  would  speak  to  him  again. 


DEVOTION.  237 

"  Well,  it  was  just  after  that  the  scandal  arose  about 
his  causing  the  death  of  a  person  by  malpractice.  He 
found  it  was  prudent  to  run  away  ;  so  he  sold  his  stock 
for  what  he  could  get,  and  hid  himself  in  New  York. 
I  did  not  know,  at  first,  where  he  was  ;  but  felt  so  re- 
lieved to  be  rid  of  him.  I  had  made  up  my  own  mind 
to  go  to  New  York,  and  get  employment  in  a  fancy- 
store.  You  know,  Mr.  Burton,  for  I  once  laid  my 
heart  before  you,  what  wild,  mad,  but  sinless  infatua- 
tion it  was  which  drew  me  there.  I  am  not  ashamed 
of  it.  God  is  love.  When  I  stand  in  his  presence,  I 
shall  glory  in  that  power  of  love,  which  in  this  bleak 
world  has  only  fretted  and  wasted  my  life.  In  heaven 
our  whole  lives  will  be  one  adoration."  She  clasped 
her  thin  hands  together,  and  turned  her  dark  eyes  up- 
ward with  an  expression  rapt  to  sublimity.  I  gazed 
upon  her  with  renewed  surprise  and  almost  reverence. 
Never  do  I  expect  to  meet  another  woman,  the  whole 
conformation  of  whose  mind  and  heart  so  fitted  her  for 
blind,  absolute  devotion  as  Leesy  Sullivan's. 

"  When  I  went  to  the  city  to  see  about  getting  a  place, 
I  met  my  cousin,  who  told  me  that  she  Avas  married  to 
George  Thorley,  and  had  been  for  some  weeks ;  that 
they  were  boarding  in  a  nice,  quiet  place,  and  that 
George  staid  at  home  a  great  deal — indeed,  he  hardly 
went  out  at  all. 

"  It  was  evident  that  she  had  not  heard  of  his  reasons 
for  leaving  Blankville,  and  that  she  did  not  gxiess  why 
he  kept  himself  so  quiet.  Of  course  I  hadn't  the  heart 
to  tell  her ;  but  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I'd  be  better 
to  stay  where  I  was,  for  the  present — so  I  went  back 
to  my  aunt,  without  trying  to  get  a  situation  in  New 
York. 

"  It  was  about  six  months  after  this  I  got  word  from 
Nora,  begging  me  to  come  and  see  her.  I  loved  my 
cousin,  and  I'd  felt  grieved  that  she  was  married  to 


238  THE    DEAD    LETTEB. 

Dr.  Thorley.  I  mistrusted  something  was  wrong ;  so 
I  went  to  the  city,  and  found  her  out  in  the  miserable 
tenement  where  she  was  now  stopping,  starving  her- 
self in  a  room  with  hardlva  nit  of  furniture.  She  burst 
out  a-crying  when  she  saw  me ;  and  when  I  stopped 
her  sobbing,  she  told  me  she  had  not  seen  George  for 
more  than  three  months  ;  that  either  he  had  met  with 
an  accident,  or  he'd  run  away  from  her,  leaving  her 
without  a  cent  of  monev,  and  she  in  sueli  health  that 
she  could  hardly  earn  enough  to  buy  a  bit  of  bread 
and  pay  the  rent  of  this  room. 

"'Do  you  really  think  he  has  left  you  ?'  I  asked  her. 

"' Sure,  how  can  I  tell  T  she  answered,  looking  at 
me  so  pitifully  with  her  innocent  blue  eyes.  '  lie  was 
a  fine  gentleman,  and  it's  afraid  I  am  that  he's  grown 
tired  of  his  poor  Irish  Nora.' 

"'I  warned  you,  cousin,'  I  said;  '  1  knew  (ieorge 
Thorley  for  a  villain  ;  but  you  were  taken  with  his  line 
words,  and  wouldn't  heed.  I'm  sorry,  sorry,  sorry  for 
you — but  that  won't  undo  what's  done.  Are  y»u  sure 
you  are  hi^  wile.  Xm-a  dear''' 

''•As  sure  M  1  am  «>f  hea\eii,'  :.ngry  with 

me.     '  Hut  it's  married  we  we're  by  a  Protestant  d 
man, to  please  George — and  I've  got  my  ceriilieatesafe 
— ah,  yes,  indeed.' 

"  I  could  never  ascertain  whether  the  eeivmony  had 
been  performed  by  a  legalized  minister ;  I  always  sus- 
pected my  poor  cousin  had  been  d'-eeived.  and  it  was 
because  my  aunt  thought  so,  too,  and  was  tore  on  the 
subject,  that  she  got  so  angry  with  you  two  gem. 
when  yon  went  to  inquire.  Hut,  whether  my  suspi- 
cions were  or  were  not  correct,  Nora  was  George's  wife 
as  certainly,  in  the  sight  of  the  angels,  as  woman  wat 
ever  the  wife  of  man.  Poor  child!  I  no  longer  h< Di- 
lated about  coming  to  New  York.  She  needed  my  pro- 
tection, and  rny  help,  too.  I  paid  her  board  till  the 


"  I   CALLED   HIM   A   MUKDEKER."  239 

day  of  her  death,  which  was  but  a  few  days  after  her 
poor  little  baby  was  born  ;  I  saw  her  decently  buried, 
and  then  I  put  out  the  infant  to  nurse,  and  I  worked  to 
keep  that.  It  was  a  comfort  to  me,  sir.  My  own  heart 
was  sad,  and  I  took  to  the  little  creature  almost  as  if  it 
was  my  own.  I  had  promised  Nora  that  I  would  bring 
it  up,  and  I  have  kept  my  word,  thus  far.  I  hated  its 
father  for  the  way  he'd  treated  Nora,  but  I  loved  the 
child  ;  I  took  pleasure  in  making  its  pretty  garments 
and  in  seeing  that  it  was  well  taken  care  of.  I  knew  I 
should  never  marry  ;  and  I  adopted  Nora's  child  as  rny 
own. 

"  Hardly  was  poor  Nora  cold  in  her  grave  when  I 
was,  one  evening,  surprised  by  a  visit  from  George  Thor- 
ley.  Where  he  had  been  during  his  absence  I  did  not 
know.  He  tried  to  excuse  his  conduct  toward  my 
cousin,  by  saying  that  he  had  married  her  in  a  fit  of 
jealousy,  to  which  I'd  driven  him  by  my  coldness; 
that  he'd  been  so  tormented  in  mind  he  couldn't  stay 
with  her,  for  he  didn't  love  her,  and  he'd  gone  out 
West,  and  been  hard  at  work,  to  try  and  forget  the 
past.  But  he  couldn't  forget  it ;  and  when  he  saw  his 
wife's  death  in  the  papers,  he  had  felt  awfully ;  but 
now  he  hoped  I'd  forgive  it  all,  and  marry  him.  He 
said  lie  had  a  good  business  started  in  Cincinnati,  and 
I  should  want  for  nothing,  and  I  mustn't  say  no  to  him, 
again.  I  stood  up,  I  was  so  indignant,  and  faced  him 
till  he  grew  as  white  as  a  sheet.  I  called  him  a  mur- 
derer— yes,  Nora's  murderer — and  ordered  him  never 
to  speak  to  me  nor  come  near  me  again.  I  knew  he 
was  terribly  angry ;  his  eyes  burned  like  fire  ;  but  he 
did  not  say  much  that  time  ;  as  he  took  up  his  hat  to 
go,  he  asked  about  his  baby — if  it  was  living  ?  I 
would  not  answer  him.  He  had  no  right  to  the  child, 
and  I  did  not  wish  him  to  see  it,  or  have  any  thing  to 
do  with  it. 
11 


240  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

w  What  became  of  him,  after  that,  for  a  long  time,  I 
don't  know.  He  may  have  been  in  the  city  all  the 
time,  or  he  may  have  been  in  Cincinnati.  At  any  rate, 
one  day,  as  I  was  going  from  my  boarding-house  to  the 
store,  I  found  him  walking  along  by  my  side.  Nora  was 
nigh  a  year  old  then.  He  commenced  talking  to  me  on 
the  street,  asking  me  again  to  marry  him  ;  and  then,  to 
frighten  me,  he  said  what  a  pretty  baby  Nora  had  got 
to  be ;  and  that  he  should  have  to  find  a  wife  to  take 
care  of  his  child.  She  was  his,  and  he  was  going  to 
have  her,  right  away  ;  and  if  I  had  any  interest  in  her, 
I  could  show  it  by  becoming  her  step-mother.  He  said 
he  had  plenty  of  money,  and  pulled  out  a  handful  of 
gold  and  showed  me.  But  this  only  made  me  think 
the  worse  of  him.  He  followed  me  home,  and  into  my 
room,  against  my  will,  and  there  I  turned  upon  him  and 
told  him  that  if  he  ever  dared  to  force  himself  into  my 
presence  again,  I  would  summon  the  police,  and  he 
should  be  turned  over  to  the  Blankvilk'  authorities  for 
the  crime  that  had  driven  him  out  of  the  village. 

"After  he  was  gone,  I  sunk  into  a  chair,  tivmbling 
with  weakness,  though  I  had  been  so  bold  in  his  pres- 
ence. Pie  looked  like  an  evil  spirit,  when  he  smiled  at 
me  ns  he  shut  the  door.  His  smile  was  more  threaten 
ing  than  any  scowl  would  have  been.  I  was  frightened 
for  Nora.  Every  day  I  expected  to  hear  that  the  little 
creature  had  been  taken  from  her  nurse ;  I  trembled 
night  and  day ;  but  nothing  happened  to  the  child,  and 
from  that  day  to  this  I  have  not  seen  George  Thorley. 
If  he  is  in  California,  I  am  glad  of  it ;  for  that  is  a 
good  ways  off,  and  perhaps  he'll  never  get  track  of  his 
daughter.  I'd  far  rather  she'd  die  and  be  buried  with 
her  mother  and  myself,  than  to  live  to  ever  know  that 
ehe  had  such  a  father. 

'It  seems  a  strange  lot  has  been  mine,"  concluded 
the  sewing-girl,  her  dark  eyes  musing  with  a  far-away 


THE    DESCRIPTION    CORRESPONDS.  241 

look,  "  to  have  been  followed  by  such  a  man  as  that,  to 
have  set  my  heart  so  high  above  me,  and  then  to  have 
fallen,  by  means  of  that  love,  into  such'  a  dreadful  pit 
of  circumstances — not  only  to  be  heart-broken,  hut  so 
driven  and  hunted  about  the  world,  with  my  poor  little 
lambkin  here." 

The  pathetic  look  and  tone  with  which  she  said  this 
touched  me  deeply.  For  the  first  time,  I  felt  fully  the 
exceeding  cruelty  I  had  been  guilty  of  toward  her,  if 
she  were  as  innocent  as  her  words  averred  of  that 
nameless  and  awful  crime  which  I  had  written  do\vn 
against  her.  At  that  moment,  I  did  believe  her  inno- 
cent ;  I  did  pity  her  for  her  own  melancholy  sufferings, 
which  had  wasted  the  fountains  of  her  life ;  and  I  did 
respect  her  for  that  humble  and  perfect  devotion,  giv- 
ing all  and  asking  nothing,  with  which  she  lavished  her 
soul  upon  him  whose  memory  called  upon  his  friends  for 
sleepless  vigilance  in  behalf  of  justice.  I  did  not  won- 
der that  she  shrunk  from  me  as  from  one  ready  to 
wound  her.  But  this  was  only  when  in  her  presence ; 
as  soon  as  I  was  away  I  felt  doubtful  again. 

"  Have  you  any  likeness  of  George  Thorley  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Burton. 

"  No.  Poor  Nora  had  his  ambrotype,  but  after  her 
death  I  threw  it  into  the  fire." 

"  Will  you  describe  him  to  us  ?" 

Miss  Sullivan  gave  a  description  corresponding  in  all 
particulars  with  that  given  by  Mr.  Burton,  after  read- 
ing the  dead-letter  ;  he  asked  her  about  the  third  finger 
of  the  right  hand,  and  she  said — "  Yes,  it  had  been 
injured  by  himself,  in  some  of  his  surgical  experi- 
ments." 

We  now  proposed  to  take  leave,  the  detective  again 
assuring  Leesy  that  he  should  rather  protect  her  against 
Thorley  than  allow  him  any  chance  to  annoy  her ;  he 
assured  her  she  should  be  cared  for  in  his  absence,  and, 


242  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

what  was  more,  that  if  little  Xora  should  bo  loft  friend- 
less, he  would  keep  an  eye  on  the  child  and  sec  that  it 
was  suitably  brought  up.  This  last  assurance  bright- 
ened the  face  of  the  consumptive  with  smiles  and  tears  ; 
but  when  he  gave  her  his  hand  at  parting,  she  burst 
into  sobs. 

"  It  is  our  last  meet 'HILT,  sir." 

"Try  to  keep  as  well  as  you  are  now  until  T  come 
back,"  he  said,  cheerfully.  "  I  mav  want  you  very 
much  then.  And,  by  the  wav,  I. <•(•-%  one  question 
more.  You  once  told  me  that  you  did  not  reco^ni/e 
the  person  you  saw  upon  the  lawn,  at  Mr.  Argyll's, 
that  night — have  you  a  suspicion  who  it  mi^ht  br  '.'" 

"  None.  I  believe  the  man  was  a  stranger  to  me.  I 
only  saw  him  by  a  Hash  of  liiihtninir  at  the  instant  he 
was  descending  from  the  tree;  if  he  had  been  an  ac- 
quaintance I  do  not  know  that  I  should  have  known 
him." 

"  That  is  all.  Good-by,  little  Nora.  Don't  forget 
Burton." 

We  heard  the  girl's  sobs  after  the  door  was  shut. 

"I'm  her  only  friend,"  said  my  companion,  as  he 
walked  awa\ .  "  No  wonder  she  is  mo\  ed  at  letting 
me  go.  I  think,  with  her.  that  it  is  doubtful  if  she  lasts 
until  we  get  back.  Still,  her  disease  is  a  I'm 
— I  hope  I  shall  see  her  live  to  \\itnc-~-the  sad  triumph 
of  our  industry." 

"  You  speak  as  if  the  triumph  were  already  secured.'' 

"If  he's  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  we'll  tin.l  EfeotaM 
George  Thorley.  It  is  no  longer  po^ible  that  we. 
should  be  on  the  wrong  track.  You  know.  Kichard, 
that  I  have  not  confided  all  my  secrets  to  you.  There 
will  be  no  one  more  astonished  than  yourself  when  I 
summon  my  witnesses  and  sum  up  my  conclusions.  Oh, 
that  the  hour  were  come !  But  I  forget  my  motto — 
1  learn  to  labor  and  to  wait.' " 


NO   DEFINITE  PLANS.  243 


CHAPTER   IV. 

EMBARKED   FOR   CALIFORNIA. 

WE  were  on  our  way  to  California  by  the  next  steamer. 
By  the  advice  of  Mr.  Burton  I  purchased  my  ticket 
under  an  assumed  name,  for  he  did  not  wish  to  excite 
the  curiosity  of  the  Argylls,  who  might  happen  to  see 
the  passage-list,  and  who  would  be  sure  to  suspect 
something  from  the  contiguity  of  our  names.  To  his 
friends,  who  chanced  to  know  of  his  sudden  intentions, 
Mr.  Burton  represented  that  the  health  of  his  daughter 
demanded  a  change  of  climate,  and  business  matters 
had  led  him  to  prefer  California. 

It  was  fortunate,  since  the  expenses  of  such  a  trip 
had  become  so  unexpected  a  necessity,  that  I  had  lived 
in  the  plain,  i-etiring  manner  which  I  had  done  in  Wash- 
ington. I  had  wasted  no  money  on  white  kids,  bou- 
quets, nor  champagne-suppers ;  I  had  paid  my  board 
and  washing-bills,  and  a  very  moderate  bill  to  my  tailor ; 
the  rest  of  my  salary  had  been  placed  in  a  New  York 
bank  to  my  account.  My  scorched  soul  and  withered 
tastes  had  demanded  no  luxurious  gratification — not 
even  the  purchase  of  new  books ;  so  that  now,  when 
this  sudden  demand  arose,  I  had  a  fund  sufficient  for 
the  purpose.  Mr.  Burton  bore  his  own  expenses, 
which,  indeed,  I  could  not  help,  for  I  had  not  the  means 
of  urging  a  different  course  upon  him. 

We  had  a  very  definite  object,  but  no  definite  plans ; 
these  were  to  be  formed  according  to  the  circumstances 
we  had  to  encounter  after  our  arrival  in  El  Dorado.  Of 
course  our  man  was  living  under  an  assumed  name,  and 
had  traveled  under  an  assumed  one  ;  we  might  have 
every  difficulty  in  getting  upon  his  track.  At  the  time 


244  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

the  detective  had  discovered  the  return  of  the  five- 
hundred  dollar  bill  from  San  Francisco,  he  had,  with 
great  perseverance,  trained  access  to,  and  "  made  a  note 
of"  the  passengers'  lists  of  all  the  steamers  which  sailed 
at  or  about  the  time  of  the  murder,  for  California. 
These  he  had  preserved.  Ont  of  the  names,  he  had 
chosen  those  which  his  curious  sagacity  suggested  were 
the  most  likely  to  prove  fictitious,  and,  if  no  quicker 
method  presented  itself,  he  intended  to  trace  out  one 
and  all  of  those  passengers,  until  he  came  uj.on  (/<>'  man. 
In  all  this  I  was  his  assistant,  willing  to  carry  mil  his 
directions,  but  trusting  the  whole  affair  to  his  more  ex- 
perienced hand. 

During  the  long,  monotonous  days  of  our  voyage,  I 
seemed  to  have 

"Suffered  » tea-change " 

into  something  quite  different  from  the  wooden  sort  of 
being  into  which!  had  gradually  been  hardening.  With 
the  dull  routine  of  my  office-life  were  broken  up  al<i> 
many  of  the  cynical  ways  of  thinking  into  which  I  had 
fallen.  I  felt  as  it'  the  springs  of  youth  were  not  quite 
dried  up.  The  real  secret  of  this  improvement  wa»  in 
the  eager  hope  I  entertained  that  tlie  real  criminals 
were  soon  to  be  brought  to  light,  ami  the  Argylls  made 

ilize  the  cruel  wrong  they  had  done  me.  Already, 
in  imagination,  I  had  accepted  their  regret  and  forgiven 
them  their  injustice.  It  Deemed  as  if  every  l.reath  of 
the  Bea-breeze,  and  every  bound  of  the  sparkling  waves, 
swept  away  ft  portion  of  the  l.ilterness  which  had  min- 
gled with  my  nature.  The  old  poetry  of  existence  be- 
gan to  warm  my  chilled  pulses  and  to  flush  the  morning 
and  evening  sky.  For  hour*  most  melancholy,  yet 
mo»t  delicious,  I  would  climb  to  some  lonely  po»t  ..f 
observation— for  I  was  a  perfect  sailor  among  the  ropes 
—and  there,  where  the  blue  of  heaven  bent  down  to 

the  blue  of  the  ocean,  making  an  azure  round  in 


.SEA-DREAMS.  245 

•which  floated  only  the  ethereal  clouds,  all  the  sweetness 
of  the  past  would  come  floating  to  me  in  fragments,  like 
the  odor  of  flowers  blown  from  some  beloved  and  dis- 
tant shore. 

The  most  vivid  picture  in  my  sea-dreams,  was  that 
;of  the  parlor  of  the  old  Argyll  mansion,  as  I  had  seen 
it  last,  on  the  night  of  my  excursion  to  the  oak-tree. 
Mary,  in  the  rosy  bloom  of  young  womanhood,  the  ideal 
of  beauty  to  the  eye  of  a  young  and  appreciative  man, 
whose  standard  of  female  perfection  was  high,  while 
his  sensitiveness  to  its  charm  was  intense — Mary,  read- 
ing her  book  beneath  the  rich  light  of  the  chandelier — 
I  loved  to  recall  the  vision,  except  always  that  it  was 
marred  by  that  shadow  of  James  coming  too  soon  be- 
tween 'me  and  the  light.  But  that  flitting  vision  of 
Eleanor  was  as  if  a  saint  had  looked  down  at  me  out  of 
its  shrine.  I  saw,  then,  that  she  was  no  longer  of  this 
world,  as  far  as  her  hopes  were  concerned.  My  once 
strong  passion  had  been  slowly  changing  into  reverence ; 
I  had  grieved  with  her  with  a  grief  utterly  self-abne- 
gating, and  when  I  saw  that  her  despair  had  worked  ^ 
itself  up  to  a  patient  and  aspiring  resignation,  I  now 
felt  less  of  pity  and  more  of  affectionate  reverence.  I 
would  have  sacrificed  my  life  for  her  peace  of  heart ; 
but  I  no  longer  thought  of  Eleanor  Argyll  as  of  a  wo- 
man to  be  approached  by  the  loves  of  this  world.  Still, 
as  I  mused  in  my  sea-reveries,  I  believed  myself  to  have 
exhausted  my  wealth  of  feeling  upon  this  now  dead  and 
hallowed  love.  I  had  given  my  first  offering  at  the 
feet  of  a  woman,  peerless  amid  her  compeers,  and  since 
she  had  chosen  before  me,  I  must  needs  live  solitary, 
too  honored  by  having  worshiped  a  woman  like  Elea- 
nor, to  ever  be  satisfied  with  a  second  choice.  For 
Mary  I  felt  a  keen  admiration,  and  a  brother's  fondest 
love.  The  noble  words  she  had  spoken  in  my  favor 
had  thrilled  me  with  gratitude,  and  increased  the 


246  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

tenderness  I  had  always  cherished  toward  her.  AYhen  I 
thought  of  her  approaching  marriage,  it  was  not  with 
jealousy,  l>ut  with  a  certain  indefinable  pang  which  came 
of  my  dislike  to  the  motives  ami  character  of  James. 
I  did  not  believe  that  he  loved  her.  Eleanor  he  lfi>t 
loved  ;  hut  Mary  was  to  him  only  the  nece-sarv  means 
of  MOttring  the  name,  property,  respectability,  etc.,  of 
his  uncle's  family.  As  I  recalled  that  visit  to  the  gam- 
ing-table, I  felt,  at  times,  as  if  I  mntr  get  lack  from 
thi<  journey  in  time  to  interfere,  and  break  nj>  the  mar- 
riage. I  would  run  the  risk  of  being  again  treated  as 
before — of  being  misunderstood  and  insulted — T  would 
run  any  risk  to  save  her  from  the  unhappiness  which 
must  come  from  such  a  partnership  !  Sol  tboOghtOOO 
hour,  and  the  next  I  would  persuade  mvself  that  I 
could  not  and  must  not  make  such  a  fool  of  mvself ; 
and  that,  after  all,  when  once  "  married  and  settled,*' 
James  might  make  a  verv  -.rood  husband  and  citizen. 

Little  Lenore  wa»  the  light  ami  glory  of  the  steamer. 
People  almost  fancied  that,  with  such  a  good  angel 
aboard,  no  harm  could  come  to  the  ship.  And  indeed 
we  had  a  specdv,  prosperous  voyage. 

.-  tedious  to  .Mr.  r,m-t«.n.      I  had  neve; 
him   sn  rcstle->-.      I  u-cd   to  tell   him  that    he  mad. 
hours  a  great  deal  longer  by  counting  them  so  i.ften. 
It  was  evident  that  he  had  some  anxiety  which   he  did 
not  share  with  inc.    A  feverish  dread  of  delays  was 
upon  him. 

After  we  had  crossed  the  isthmus  and  were  fairly 
embarked  oil  the  Pacific,  his  n-stU-.sm-s<  abated.  Yd 
it  was  just  then  that  a  small  delay  occurred,  which 
threatened  to  irritate  him  into  new  impatience.  It  was 
found  that  the  captain  had  taken  on  board  'pule  a  c»m- 
panv  of  passengers  whom  he  had  promised  to  land  at 
Aeapulco.  It  was  a  beautiful, -imny  day  early  in  ' 
ber,  that  our  ship  steamed  into  the  little  bay.  Nearly 


"  SOMETHING    HAS  HAPPENED   TO   HIM."  247 

all  the  passengers  were  on  deck,  to  take  a  look  at  the 
country  and  harbor  as  we  approached.  I  was  upon  the 
hurricane-deck  with  Lenore,  who  was  delighted  with 
the  warm  air  and  green  shores,  and  whose  hair  stream- 
ed on  the  fresh  yet  delicious  breeze  like  a  golden  ban- 
ner. She  observed  the  distant  mountains,  the  sunny 
haze,  the  glimmering  water  of  the  bay,  Avith  all  the  in- 
telligence of  a  woman  ;  while  I  could  not  but  be  more 
pleased  with  the  roses  blowing  on  her  cheeks  and  the 
trick  the  wind  was  playing  with  her  hair,  than  with  all 
the  scenery  about  us.  The  child's  attendant,  a  steady, 
careful  matron,  who  had  long  had  the  charge  of  her, 
was  likewise  on  deck,  chatting  with  some  of  her  new 
acquaintances,  and  she  could  not  refrain  from  coming 
to  us,  presently,  on  the  pretext  of  wrapping  Lenore's 
shawl  closer  about  her. 

"  Do  look  at  her,  Mr.  Redfield,"  said  the  good  wo- 
man, "  did  you  ever  see  her  looking  so  bright  and 
healthy,  sir  ?  The  master  was  right,  sure  enough — it 
was  a  sea-voyage  she  needed,  above  all  things.  Her 
cheeks  are  like  pinies,  and,  if  I  do  say  it,  who  shouldn't, 
it's  the  opinion  of  the  company  that  you're  the  best- 
lookin'  couple  on  the  decks.  I've  heard  more'n  one 
speak  of  it  this  past  half-hour." 

"  That's  half  true,  anyhow,"  I  answered,  laughing, 
and  looking  at  Lenore,  whose  modest,  quiet  mind  was 
never  on  the  alert  for  compliments.  She  laughed  be- 
cause I  did,  but  remained  just  as  unconscious  of  her 
pretty  looks  as  hitherto. 

"  There's  papa  coming,"  she  said  ;  "  something  has 
happened  to  him." 

With  her  marvelous  quick  discernment,  so  like  her 
father's,  she  perceived,  before  I  did,  that  he  was  excited, 
although  endeavoring  to  appear  more  calm  than  lie 
really  felt. 

"  Well,  Richard,  Lenore,"  he  began,  drawing  us  a 
11* 


248  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

little  apart  from  the  others,  speaking  in  a  low  voice, 
"what  do  you  say  to  my  leaving  you ?" 

"Leaving  us!"  we  both  very  naturally  exclaimed. 

u  It  would  be  rather  sudden,  that  is  true." 

•-  \V lii-re  would  you  go?  Walk  off  on  the  water, 
or  betake  yourself  to  the  valleys  and  mountains  of 
Mexico?" 

"There's  no  jest  about  it,  Richard,  Information, 
whirh  has  come  tome  in  the  strangest,  most  unexpccu ••! 
manner,  renders  it  imperative  thai  I  should  stop  at 
Acapulco.  I  am  as  much  surprised  a<  you  are.  I  have 
not  even  time  to  tell  you  the  story  ;  in  twenty  minutes 
the  >hij>  will  begin  to  send  oft' her  pass«.-np-rs  in  a  small- 
boat  ;  and  if  I  decide  to  remain  here,  I  must  go  to  my 
state-roora  for  some  of  my  clothes." 

"Are  you  in  earnest,  lather?"  asked  Lenore,  ready 
to  cry. 

"  Yes,  my  darling.  I  am  afraid  I  must  let  you  go  on 
to  San  Francisco  without  me;  but  you  will  have  Marie, 
and  Kit-hard  will  take  as  good  care  of  you  as  I  would. 
I  want  you  to  enjoy  yourselves,  to  have  no  car 
take  tin-  second  return  steamer,  which  will  ^ive  you  a 
fortnight  in  San  Francisco,  and  I  trill  mot  yon  at  the 
ixthmus.  As  you  will  have  nothing  to  do,  after  Your 
arrival,  I  will  advise  you  to  explore  the  country,  ii.li; 
out  every  pleasant  day,  etc.  The  time  will  soon 
and  in  five  weeks,  God  willing,  we  shall  meet  and  be 
happy,  my  dear  little  girl.  Kim,  run  to  Marie,  and  tell 
her  what  I  am  to  do;  she  will  come  and  get  my 
orders." 

Lenore  moved  away,  rather  reluctantly,  and  Mr. 
liurtnii  continued  to  myself,  who  was  standing  silent 
from  inert-  stupidity  of  astonishment  : 

•  Ky  the  merest  chance  in  the  wi.rld  I  overheard  a 
conversation  lictwecn  the  people  about  to  land,  which 
convinces  me  that  George  Thorley,  instead  of  l.«-in^  in 


"I'M   SUBE    OP   MY  MAN."  249 

California,  is  not  thirty  miles  from  Acapulco.  If  I 
were  not  positive  of  it,  I  should  not  run  the  risk  of  ex- 
periment, now,  when  time  is  worth  every  thing.  But  I 
am  so  certain  of  it,  that  I  do  not  see  as  there  is  any 
thing  for  you  to  do  in  San  Francisco  but  to  help  little 
Lenore  pass  the  time  pleasantly.  I  have  thought,  as 
calmly  as  I  could  under  the  pressure  of  much  haste, 
whether  you  had  better  stop  with  me,  and  await,  at 
some  hotel  in  Acapulco,  the  result  of  my  visit  into  the 
interior,  or  go  on  to  the  end  of  your  journey,  and  return- 
ing, meet  me  at  the  isthmus.  On  the  child's  account, 
I  think  you  had  better  finish  the  voyage  as  expected. 
The  sea-air  is  benefiting  her  greatly ;  and,  unless  you 
fret  too  much,  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  your  enjoying 
the  trip." 

"  I  shall  do  just  as  you  advise,  Mr.  Burton  ;  but,  of 
course,  I  shall  be  intolerably  anxious.  For  my  own 
part,  I  would  rather  keep  with  you;  but  that  must  be 
done  which  is  best  for  all." 

"  You  could  do  me  no  good  by  remaining  with  me ; 
the  only  thing  to  be  gained  is,  that  you  would  be  out 
of  your  suspense  sooner.  But,  I  assure  you,  you  ought 
to  rejoice  and  feel  light-hearted  in  view  of  so  soon  learn- 
ing the  one  fact  most  important  to  us — the  hiding-place 
of  that  man.  Think  you  I  would  wish  delay  ?  No. 
I'm  sure  of  my  man,  or  I  should  not  take  this  unex- 
pected step.  How  curious  are  the  ways  of  Provi- 
dence !  It  seems  as  if  I  received  help  outside  of  myself. 
I  was  vexed  to  hear  that  we  were  to  be  delayed  at 
Acapulco,  and  now  this  has  proven  our  salvation." 
"  God  grant  you  are  in  the  right,  Mr.  Burton." 
"  God  grant  it.  Do  not  fear  that  I  shall  fail,  Rich- 
ard. You  have  reason  to  be  doubly  cheerful.  Don't 
you  trust  me  ?" 

"  As  much — more,  than  any  person  on  earth." 

"  Be  true  to  your  part,  then ;  take  good  care  of  my 


250  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

child — meet  me  at  the  isthmus — that  is  your  \rhole 
duty." 

"But,  Mr.  Burton,  do  you  not  place  yourself  in 
danger  ?  Are  you  not  incurring  risks  which  you  ought 
to  share  with  others  ?  Can  I  go  on,  idle  and  prosper- 
ous, leaving  you  to  do  all  tin-  work,  ami  brave  all  the 
dangers  of  a  journey  like  yours?" 

"I  wish  it.  There  maybe  a  little  personal  ri»k  ; 
but  not  more,  perhaps,  than  I  incur  every  day  of  my 
life.  Perhaps  you  do  not  know,"  he  added,  gayly, 
'•  that  I  lead  a  charmed  life.  Malice  and  iv  \cm_re  have 
followed  me  in  a  hundred  disguises — six  times  I  have 
.  d  pui-niied  food  prepared  lor  me;  se\eral  time.-, 
infernal  machines,  packed  to  resemble  elegant  presents, 
have  been  sent  to  me ;  thrice  I  have  turned  upon  the 
assassin,  whose  arm  was  raided  to  >trik( — luit  I  have 
come  unscathed  out  of  all  danger,  to  quietly  pursue  the 
path  to  which  a  vivid  sense  of  duty  calls  me.  1  do  not 
believe  that  I  am  going  to  fail  in  this,  one  of  the  mo-t, 
atrocious  cases  in  which  I  have  ever  intciv-lcd  my>elf. 
No,  no,  Richard  ;  I  enjoy  the  work — the  sense  of  dan- 
ger adds  to  its  importance.  I  would  not  ha\e  it  other- 
\\i-e.  As  I  said,  (iod  willing,  I  will  meet  you  at  the 
i-thiiiu-.  It'  I  do  ii. -t  keep  my  appointment,  th>n  you 
may  know  that  harm  has  come  to  me;  and,  alter  pro- 
viding for  the  safe  passage  home  of  my  little  family, 
you  may,  if  you  please,  come  back  to.  look  after  the 
threads  of  the  history  which  I  ha\e  dropped.  The 
steamer  has  cast  anchor  ;  I  must  get  my  luggage  in 
shape  to  go  ash< 

Mi-  turned  away  ;  l.ut  presently  paused  and  returned, 
with  an  air  of  perplexity. 

"  There  will  be  something  for  you  to  do,  Richard.  I 
had  forgotten  about  that  live-hundred-dollar  bill,  which 
certainly  went  to  California  within  a  shori  time  alter 
the  robbery.  If  I  should  be  mistaken,  alter  all — but 


FOREBODING.  251 

no !  my  information  is  too  conclusive — I  must  take  the 
course,  now,  and  if  I  am  on  the  wrong  track,  it  will  be 
a  bad  business.  However,  I  will  not  allow  myself  to 
think  so,"  he  added,  brightening  again  ;  "  but  it  will  do 
no  harm  for  you  to  take  a  lesson  in  my  art,  by  exercis- 
ing your  skill  in  tracing  the  fortunes  of  that  bank-note. 
In  doing  that,  you  may  come  upon  evidence  which,  if  I 
fail  here,  may  he  turned  to  use." 

With  a  foreboding  of  evil  I  looked  after  him  as  he 
descended  the  ladder  to  the  lower  deck — form,  face  and 
manner  expressing  the  indomitable  energy  which  made 
him  the  man  he  was. 

When  the  sun  sunk,  that  night,  into  the  molten  waves 
of  the  Pacific,  Lenore  and  I  paced  the  deck  alone  ;  and 
as  she  quietly  wiped  away  the  tears  which  fell  at  the 
sense  almost  of  desertion  which  her  father's  sudden  de- 
parture caused,  I  could  hardly  cheer  her,  as  he  had  bid- 
den me ;  for  I,  too,  felt  the  melancholy  isolation  of  our 
position — voyaging  to  a  strange  land  in  the  wake  of  an 
awful  mystery. 


252  TttB  DEAD  LETTER. 


CHAPTER   V. 

ON   THE   TRAIL. 

I  NEED  not  dwell  at  much  length  upon  our  visit  to  San 
Francisco,  since  nothing  important  to  the  success  of  our 
enterprise  came  of  it.  From  the  hour  we  entered  the 
Golden  Gate  till  we  departed  through  it,  I  was  restless 
with  a  solicitude  which  made  me  nervous  and  sleepless, 
destroyed  my  appetite,  and  blinded  me  to  half  the  nov- 
elties  of  San  Francisco,  with  its  unparalleled  growth 
and  hybrid  civilization.  I  ga\e  tin-  most  of  my  time  to 
two  objects — looking,  by  night,  into  all  the  bad,  popu- 
lar, or  out-of-the-way  dens,  haunts,  saloon  s  theaters  and 
hotels.  scanning  every  one  of  the  thousands  of  strange 
fact--,  for  that  one  sinister  countenance,  which  I  felt 
that  I  could  know  at  a  glance — and  in  the  endeavor  to 
identify  the  man  who  had  disposed  of  tin-  Park  Bank 
bill  to  the  Express  Company. 

I  was  rewarded,  for  days  of  research,  by  ascertaining, 
finally,  and  beyond  doubt,  that  a  gentleman  of  respect- 
ability, a  Spaniard,  still  residing  in  the  city,  had  « >H'c  ed 
the  bill  to  In-  di.-c,. inited  at  the  time  it  had  been  ac- 
cepted by  the  company.  I  made  the  acquaintance  of 
the  Spanish  gentleman,  and,  with  a  delicacy  of  address 
upon  which  I  flattered  myself,  I  managed  to  learn. with- 
out being  too  impertinent,  that  he  had  obliged  a  fellow- 
•paMeoger,  two  years  previously,  who  was  getting  off  at 
Acapulco,  and  who  desired  gold  for  his  paper  money, 
with  the  specie,  and  had  taken  of  him  gome  two  or 
three  thousand  dollars  of  New  York  currency,  which 
he  had  disposed  of  to  the  Express  Company. 

Burton  was  right,  then !  My  heart  leaped  to  my 
throat  as  the  gentleman  mentioned  Acapulco.  From 


BE-EMBARKED.  253 

that  moment  I  felt  less  fear  of  failure,  but  more,  if  pos- 
sible, intense  curiosity  and  anxiety. 

It  had  been  my  intention  to  proceed  to  Sacramento 
in  search  of  the  haunting  face  which  was  forever  glid- 
ing before  my  mind's  eye ;  but,  after  this  revelation,  I 
gladly  yielded  to  the  belief  that  Mr.  Burton  would  find 
the  face  before  I  did  ;  and,  in  the  relief  consequent  up- 
on this  hope,  I  began  to  give  more  heed  to  his  injunction, 
to  do  my  part  of  the  duty  by  taking  good  care  of  his 
child. 

Lenore  was  in  rising  health  and  spirits,  and  when  I 
began  to  exert  myself  to  help  her  pass  away  the  time, 
she  grew  very  happy.  The  confiding  dependence  of 
childhood  is  its  most  affecting  trait.  It  was  enough  for 
her  that  her  father  had  given  her  to  me  for  the  present ; 
she  felt  safe  and  joyous,  and  made  all  those  little  de- 
mands upon  my  attention  which  a  sister  asks  of  an 
older  brother.  I  could  hardly  realize  that  she  was 
nearly  thirteen  years  of  age,  she  remained  so  small  and 
slender,  and  was  so  innocently  childlike  in  her  manners 
and  feelings.  Her  attendant  was  one  of  those  active 
women  who  like  nothing  so  much  as  plenty  of  business 
responsibility ;  the  trip,  to  her,  was  full  of  the  kind  of 
excitement  she  preferred  ;  the  entire  charge  of  the  little 
maiden  intrusted  to  her  care,  was  one  of  the  most  de- 
lightful accidents  that  ever  happened  to  her ;  I  believe 
she  rejoiced  daily  in  the  absence  of  Mr.  Burton,  simply 
because  it  added  to  the  importance  of  her  duties. 

But  I  was  glad  when  the  fortnight's  long  delay  was 
over,  and  we  were  reembarked  upon  our  journey. 
My  mind  lived  in  advance  of  the  hour,  dwelling  upon 
the  moment  when  I  should  either  see,  awaiting  us  on 
the  dock,  where  he  had  promised  to  meet  us,  at  the 
isthmus,  the  familiar  form  of  the  good  genius  of  our 
party,  or — that  blank  which  would  announce  tidings  of 
fatal  evil. 


254  THE    DEAD    LETTER. 

Wo  glided  prosperously  over  the  rounded  swells  of 
the  Pacific,  through  sunshiny  days,  and  nights  of  bril- 
liant moonlight.  Through  tin-  soft  evenings,  Lenore, 
well  wrapped  in  shawls  and  hood  l»y  her  faithful  wo- 
man, remained  with  me  upon  deck,  sometimes  until 
quite  late,  singing,  one  after  another,  those  delicious 
melodies  never  more  subtly,  nudei-standingly  rendered, 
than  by  this  small  spirit  of  song.  Rapt  crowds  would 
gather,  at  respectful  distances,  to  listen  ;  but  she  sung 
for  mv  sake,  and  for  the  music's,  unheeding  who  came 
or  went.  Sometimes,  even  now,  I  wake  at  night  from 
a  dream  of  that  voyage,  with  the  long  wake  of  glit- 
tering silver  following  the  ship,  a<  if  a  million  I'eris,  in 
their  boats  of  pearl,  were  sailing  after  u^,  drawn  on  by 
the  enchantment  of  the  pure  voice  which  rose  and  fell 
between  stars  aini 

The  last  twenty-four  hours  before  reaching  the  isth- 
mus witneN-ed  a  change  in  the  long  stretch  of  brilliant 
weather  common  at  that  sca>on  <,\'  the  year.  Torrents 
of  rain  began  to  fall,  and  continued  hour  after  hour, 
shutting  us  in  the  cabin,  and  surrounding  us  with  a 
gray  wall,  which  was  a*  if  some  solid  world  had 
closed  us  in.  and  we  wen-  nevermore  to  see  blue  sky, 
thin  air,  or  the  sharp  rays  of  the  sun. 

Lenore,  wearied  of  the  monotony,  at  length  fell 
asleep  on  one  of  the  s..fa- ;  and  I  was  glad  to  ha\e  her 
<|iiiet,  for  she  had  been  restless  at  the  prospect  <>t 
ing  her  father  early  the  next  morning.  It  was  ex- 
pected the  steamer  would  reach  her  dock  some  time 
after  midnight.  As  the  hours  of  the  day  and  evening 
wore  on.  I  grew  so  impatient  as  to  f.-el  -nir  >cate<l  by 
the  narrow  bounds  of  the  -hip,  and  the  close,  gray  tent 
of  clouds.  Lenore  went  early  to  her  Mate-room.  I 
then  borrowed  a  waterproof  cloak  from  one  of  the 

HI  of  the    vessel,  ;ui'l   walked    the  decks    the  whole 

night,  in  the  driving  rain,  for  I  could  not  breathe  in  my 


ANOTHER   RAINY   NIGHT.  255 

little  room.  It  was  so  possible,  so  probable,  that  harm 
had  befallen  the  solitary  detective,  setting  forth,  "  a 
stranger  in  a  strange  land,"  upon  his  dangerous  errand, 
that  I  blamed  myself  bitterly  for  yielding  to  his  wishes, 
and  allowing  him  to  remain  at  Acapulco.  In  order  to 
comfort  myself,  I  recalled  his  ability  to  cope  with 
danger — his  physical  strength,  his  unshaken  coolness 
of  nerve  and  mind,  his  calmness  of  purpose  and  indom- 
itable will,  before  which  the  wills  of  other  men  were 
broken  like  reeds  by  a  strong  wind.  The  incessant 
rain  recalled  two  other  memorable  nights  to  me ;  and 
the  association  did  not  serve  to  make  me  more  cheer- 
ful. There  Avas  no  wind  whatever,  with  the  rain  ;  the 
captain  assured  me,  after  I  had  asked  him  often  enough 
to  vex  a  less  question-inured  officer,  for  the  twentieth 
time,  that  we  were  "  all  right" — "  not  a  half-hour  after 
time" — "  would  arrive  at  the  isthmus  at  two  o'clock, 
A.M.,  precisely,  and  I  might  go  to  bed  in  peace,  and  be 
ready  to  get  up  early  in  the  morning." 

I  had  no  idea  of  going  to  bed.  The  passengers  were 
not  to  be  disturbed  until  daylight ;  but  I  was  too  anx- 
ious to  think  of  sleep ;  I  said  to  myself  that  if  Mr. 
Burton  was  as  impatient  as  myself,  he  would,  despite 
the  storm  and  the  late  hour,  be  upon  the  dock  awaiting 
our  arrival ;  and  if  so,  he  should  not  find  me  slumber- 
ing. As  we  neared  our  landing,  I  crowded  in  among 
the  sailors  at  the  forward  part  of  the  boat,  and  strained 
•my  eyes  through  the  gloom  to  the  little  twinkle  of 
light  given  out  by  the  lamps  along  the  quay.  As 
usual,  there  was  considerable  stir  and  noise,  upon  the 
arrival  of  the  steamer,  shouts  from  the  ship  and  shore, 
and  a  bustle  of  ropes  and  swearing  of  sailors.  The 
passengers  generally  were  snug  in  their  berths,  where 
they  remained  until  morning.  In  a  few  moments  the 
ropes  were  cast  ashore  and  we  were  moored  to  our 
dock.  I  leaned  over  the  gunwale  and  peered  through 


256  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

the  mist ;  the  rain  lia<l  kindly  ceased  descending,  for 
the  time  ;  various  lamps  and  lanterns  glimmered  along 
the  wharf,  where  some  persons  were  busy  about  their 
work,  pertaining  to  the  arrival  of  the  ship ;  but  I 
looked  in  vain  for  Mr.  Burton. 

Disappointed,  despondent,  I  still  reconnoitered  the 
various  groups,  when  a  loud,  cheery  voice  called  out, 

"Richard,  halloo!" 

I  experienced  a  welcome  revulsion  of  feeling  as  these 
pleasant  tones  startled  me  to  the  consciousness  that 
Mr.  Burton  had  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  a  lamp- 
post, against  which  he  had  been  leaning,  and  was  now 
almost  within  shaking-hands  distance.  I  could  have 
laughed  or  cried,  whichever  happened,  as  I  recognized 
the  familiar  voice  and  form.  Presently  he  was  on  the 
vessel.  The  squeeze  I  gave  his  hand,  when  we  met, 
must  have  been  severe,  for  he  winced  under  it.  I 
scarcely  needed  to  say — "  You  have  been  successful !'' 
or  he  $o  answer;  there  was  a  light  on  his  lace  which 
assured  me  that  at  least  he  had  not  entirely  failed. 

"I  have  much,  much  to  tell  you,  Hit-hard.  But  first 
about  my  darling — is  she  well — happy  ?" 

"Both.  We  have  not  had  an  accident.  You  will 
be  surprised  to  see  Lenore,  she  has  improved  so  rapidly. 
My  In-art  !<•<!<  a  thousand  pounds  lighter  than  it  did 
an  hour  ago." 

"Why  so?" 

"  Oh,  I  was  so  afraid  you  had  not  got  away  from 
Acapulco." 

"  You  do  look  pale,  that's  a  fact,  Richard— as  if  you 
had  not  slept  for  a  week.  Let  your  mind  rest  in 
quiet,  my  friend.  All  in  ri'jftt.  The  trij>  has  not  l.eni 
1.  Xo\v  let  God  give  us  favoring  breezes  home, 
and  two  years  of  honest  effort  §hall  be  r« -\vanli ••!.  ^\\>• 
tiee  shall  be  done.  The  wicked  in  high  places  shall  bo 
brought  low." 


MB.  BURTON'S  EXPERIENCES.  257 

He  always  spoke  as  if  impressed  with  an  awful 
sense  of  his  responsibility  in  bringing  the  iniquities  of 
the  favored  rich  to  light ;  and  on  this  occasion  his  ex- 
pression was  unusually  earnest. 

"  Where  is  my  little  girl  ?  What  is  the  number  of 
her  state-room  ?  I  would  like  to  steal  a  kiss  before 
she  wakes ;  but  I  suppose  that  careful  Marie  has  the 
door  bolted  and  barred;  so  I  will  not  disturb  them. 
It  is  three  whole  hours  to  daylight  yet.  I  can  tell  you 
the  whole  story  of  my  adventures  in  that  time,  and  I 
suppose  you  have  a  right  to  hear  it  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. I  will  not  keep  you  in  suspense.  Come  into 
the  cabin." 

We  found  a  quiet  corner,  where,  in  the  "  wee  sma' 
hours,"  by  the  dim  light  of  the  cabin-lamps,  now 
nearly  out$  I  listened,  it  is  needless  to  say  with  what 
painful  interest,  to  the  account  of  Mr.  Burton's  visit 
in  Mexico.  I  will  give  the  history  here,  as  he  gave  it, 
with  the  same  reservations  which,  it  was  evident,  he 
still  made  in  talking  with  me. 

These  reservations — which  I  could  not  fail  to  per- 
ceive he  had  frequently  made,  since  the  beginning 
of  our  acquaintance,  and  which,  the  reader  will  re- 
collect, had  at  times  excited  my  indignation — puz- 
zled and  annoyed  me ;  but  there  was  soon  to  come 
a  time  when  I  understood  and  appreciated  them. 

On  that  day  of  our  outwai'd  voyage,  when  the  ship 
was  detained  to  land  a  portion  of  her  passengers  at 
Acapulco,  Mr.  Burton,  restless  at  the  delay,  was  lean- 
ing over  the  deck-rails,  thrumming  impatiently  with 
his  fingers,  when  his  attention  became  gradually  ab- 
sorbed in  the  conversation  of  a  group  of  Mexicans  at 
his  elbow,  several  of  whom  were  of  the  party  about 
to  land.  They  spoke  the  corrupted  Spanish  of  their 
country ;  but  the  listener  understood  it  well  enough 
to  comprehend  the  most  of  what  was  said. 


258  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

One  of  their  number  -was  describing  a  scene  which 
occurred  upon  his  landing  at  this  same  port  some 
two  years  previous.  The  ship,  bound  for  San  Fran- 
cisco, met  with  an  accident,  and  put  into  Aeapulco  for 
repairs.  The  passengers  knowing  tin-  steamer  would 
not  sail  under  twenty-four  hours,  the  most  of  them 
broke  the  monotony  of  the  delay  by  going  on  shore. 
A  number  of  rough  New  Yorkers,  going  .out  to  the 
mines,  got  into  a  quarrel  with  some  of  the  natives, 
during  which  knives,  pistols,  etc.,  were  freely  used.  A 
gentleman,  named  Don  .Miguel,  the  owner  of  a  large 
and  valuable  hacienda  which  lay  about  thirty  miles 
from  Acapulco,  and  who  had  just  landed  from  the 
steamer,  attempted,  imprudently,  to  interfere,  not  wish- 
ing his  countrymen  to  lie  IO  touchy  with  their  \isitors, 
rind  was  rewarded  tor  hi  -ood  intentions  by  r. 
ing  a  severe  8tal>  in  the  side  from  one  «>f  the  com- 
batants, lie  bled  profus»  ly,  and  would  soon  have 
become  exhausted,  had  not  his  wound  been  immediately 
and  well  dressed  by  a  young  American,  one  of  tin- 
New  York  passengers,  who  had  lauded  to  see  the 
Bight*,  and  was  standing  idly  to  one  side,  viewing  the 
mcl&e  at  the  time  Don  Miguel  was  injured.  The  Don, 
exceedingly  grateful  for  the  timely  attention,  conceived 
a  warm  liking  for  the  young  man,  \\ho-e-Yankee" 
quickness  and  readiness  had  attracted  his  attention 
while  on  board  the  -(earner.  Ha\iip_r  -/ncii  such  pro,.f 
of  hi-  fitness  for  the  place  as  he  had  done  by  dre-Hii'_r 
the  I)..n's  wound,  that  gentleman,  in  the  cour-e  of  the 
two  or  three  hours  in  which  the  young  stranger  re- 
mained in  attendance  upon  him,  offered  him  the  -itua-. 
tiou  of  physician  upon  his  immense  Wtfttei,  with  the 
j.lain  promise  that  he  should  reeei\e  benefits  much 
more  important  than  hi-  -alary.  This  olVer,  after  a 
short  hesitation,  was  accepted  by  the  doctor,  who 
Stated  that  ho  was  out  in  search  of  his  fortune,  and  it 


AN   INTEBESTING   STORY.  259 

made  no  difference  to  him  where  he  found  it,  whether 
in  Mexico  or  California,  only  that  he  should  be  assured 
of  doing  Avell.  This  Don  Miguel,  in  his  sudden  friend- 
ship, was  prompt  to  promise.  The  Don,  besides  vast 
grazing  farms,  had  extensive  intei-ests  in  the  silver 
mines  which  bordered  upon  his  hacienda.  Doctor 
Seltzer  was  deeply  interested  in  an  account  of  these, 
and  returned  to  the  ship  for  his  baggage,  bidding  his 
fello w -passengers  good-by,  in  excellent  spirits.  "  And 
well  he  might  consider  himself  fortunate,"  continued 
the  narrator,  "  for  there  are  none  of  us  who  do  not 
feel  honored  by  the  friendship  of  Don  Miguel,  who  is 
as  honorable  as  he  is  wealthy.  "  For  my  part,  I  do  not 
understand  how  he  came  to  place  such  confidence  in 
the  '  Yankee'  doctor,  who  had  to  me  the  air  of  an  ad- 
venturer ;  but  he  took  him  to  his  home,  made  him  a 
member  of  his  family,  and  before  I  left  Acapulco,  I 
heard  that  Don  Miguel  had  given  him  for  a  wife  his 
only  daughter,  a  beautiful  girl,  who  could  have  had  her 
choice  of  the  proudest  young  bloods  in  this  region." 

It  may  be  imagined  with  what  interest  Mr.  Burton 
listened  to  the  story  thus  unconsciously  revealed  by 
the  chatty  Mexican.  He  at  once,  as  by  prescience,  saw 
his  man  in  this  fortunate  Dr.  Seltzer,  who  had  regis- 
tered his  name  Mr.,  not  Dr.,  on  the  passenger-list,  and 
which  name- was  among  those  that  the  detective  had 
selected  as  suspicious. 

(I  interrupted  my  friend's  narrative  here  to  explain 
the  matter  of  the  bank-notes  which  he  had  exchanged 
for  specie  with  a  passenger,  but  found  that  Mr.  Burton 
already  knew  all  about  them.) 

Edging  gradually  into  the  conversation,  Mr.  Burton, 
with  his  tact  and  experience,  was  not  long  in  drawing 
from  the  group  a  description  of.  the  personal  appear- 
ance of  Dr.  Seltzer,  along  with  all  the  facts  and  con- 
jectures relating  to  his  history  since  his  connection 


260  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

with  Don  Miguel.  Everything  he  heard  made  "  assu- 
rance doubly  sure  ;"  and  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost 
in  deciding  upon  the  course  to  be  pursued  in  this  unex- 
pected doubling  of  the  chase.  To  get  off  at  Acapulco 
was  a  matter  of  course ;  but  what  to  do  with  the  re- 
mainder of  his  party  he  could  not  at  first  determine.  He 
knew  that  I  would  be  eager  to  accompany  him ;  yet  he 
feared  that,  in  some  way,  should  we  all  land  and  take 
rooms  at  any  of  the  hotels,  the  wily  Doctor  Seltzer, 
doubtless  always  on  the  alert,  mi^ht  ]>c-rceive  some 
cause  for  alarm,  and  secure  safety  by  flight.  To  go 
alone,  under  an  assumed  name,  in  the  character  of  a 
scientific  explorer  of  mines,  seemed  to  him  the  surest 
and  most  discreet  method  of  nearing  the  game ;  and 
to  this  resolve  he  had  come  before  he  sought  us  out 
to  announce  his  intention  of  stopping  at  Acapulco, 
while  leaving  us  to  pursue  our  voyage  without  him. 


SELF-BELIANT.  261 


CHAPTER   VI. 

AT   LAST — AT  LAST. 

As  our  ship  steered  away  out  into  the  open  sea,  Mr. 
Burton  walked  up  into  the  ruinous  old  Spanish  town, 
and  stopped  at  the  hotel,  in  whose  breezy  corridor  he 
found  several  of  his  traveling  companions,  who  had 
preceded  him.  These  persons  had  been  somewhat  sur- 
prised at  his  desertion  of  the  rest  of  his  party  for  a 
visit  to  their  decayed  city ;  but  when  he  explained  to 
them  his  desire  of  visiting  some  of  their  deserted 
mines,  and  examining  the  character  of  the  mountainous 
region,  a  little  back,  before  proceeding  to  similar  in- 
vestigations in  California,  their  wonder  gave  place  to 
the  habitual  indolence  of  temperaments  hardly  active 
enough  for  curiosity.  There  were  two  or  three  persons 
from  the  United  States  stopping  at  the  hotel,  who 
quickly  made  his  acquaintance,  eager  for  news  direct 
from  home,  and  while  he  conversed  with  these  the  four 
o'clock  dinner  was  announced.  He  sipped  his  choco- 
late leisurely,  after  the  dessert,  chatting  at  ease  with 
his  new  friends ;  and  upon  expressing  a  desire  to  see 
more  of  the  old  town,  one  of  them  offered  to  accom- 
pany him  upon  a  walk.  They  strolled  out  among  cool 
palm  groves,  and  back  through  the  dilapidated  streets, 
made  picturesque  by  some  processions  of  Catholics, 
winding  through  the  twilight  with  their  torches,  until 
the  moon  arose  and  glimmered  on  the  restless  ocean. 

Most  persons,  on  business  similar  to  Mr.  Burton's, 
would  have  gone  at  once  to  the  American  consul  for 
his  assistance ;  but  he  felt  himself  fully  equal  to  the 
emergency,  and  desired  no  aid  in  the  enterprise  which 
he  was  about  to  prosecute.  Therefore  he  refused  the 


262  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

invitation  of  his  companion  to  call  upon  tin-  consul ; 
and  finally  returned  to  his  hotel,  to  sit  awhile  in  the 
open,  moonlit  corridor,  before  retiring  to  his  room, 
where  he  lay  loni;  awake,  pondering  upon  the  steps  to 
be  taken  next  day,  and  somewhat  disturbed  by  the 
open  doors  and  windows,  which  were  the  order  of  the 
establishment. 

Ho  was  awakened  from  his  first  slumber  by  the  cold 
nose  of  a  dog  rubbed  in  his  tare,  and  from  his  second 
by  ft  lizard  creeping  over  him  ;  but  not  bciiiir  a  nervous 
map,  he  contrived  to  sleep  soundly  at  last.  lie  was 
served,  early  in  the  morning,  with  a  cup  of  o'tVee  in 
his  apartment,  and  before  the  late  breakfast  wa*  ivady, 
he  had  been  abroad  ami  concluded  his  arrangements 
for  a  visit  to  the  estates  of  Don  Miguel.  Kverybody 
knew  that  ircntleman  by  reputation  ;  and  lie  had  u<> 
difficulty  in  securing  the  services  of  two  half-naked, 
la/y-looking  native  Indians,  to  act  as  guides,  who,  \\  ith 
th'-ee  forlorn  mules,  dest'riied  to  carry  the  party,  were 
at  the  door  when  he  finished  his  repast,  lie  was 
w.irned  to  go  well  armed,  as,  though  the  route  to  Don 
Miguel's  was  an  old  one,  often  traveled,  there  wa»  al- 
ways more  or  less  danger  in  that  country.  A  pistol  or 
t\\  ••  would  not  bo  out  of  place,  if  only  to  keep  his  shifi- 
less  guides  in  order.  Mr.  Burton  thanked  his  advi-ers, 
told  them  he  feared  nothing,  and  set  out  upon  his  long, 
Lot  and  tedious  ride — thirty  miles  on  mnlcback.  under 
a  southern  sun,  being  something  more  of  a  task  than 
he  had  ever  known  a  journey  of  that  length  to  be 
hitherto.  At  noon  he  took  a  rest  of  a  couple  of  hours 
at  a  miserable  inn  by  the  wayside,  and  a  dinner  of  fried 
tortillas,  rendered  tolerable  by  a  dessert  of  limes,  ba- 
nanas and  oranges.  With  a  supply  of  this  cooling 
fruit  in  his  pockets,  he  braved  the  afternoon  sun,  deter- 
mined to  reach  the  hacienda  before  dark.  As  he 
neared  his  destination,  the  character  of  the  country 


DON   MIGUEL.  263 

changed.  The  broad  road,  cut  through  groves  of  palm, 
and  fields  of  corn,  with  orchards  of  figs  and  peaches, 
grew  more  narrow  and  uneven,  and  the  surface  of  the 
ground  more  broken.  Before  him  loomed  up  hills, 
growing  higher  as  they  retreated,  some  of  the  glitter- 
ing peaks  seeming  to  glisten  with  snow.  A  cool,  re- 
freshing air  swept  down  from  them  ;  the  scenery,  al- 
though wilder,  was  beautiful  and  romantic  in  the  ex- 
treme. Wearied  as  he  was  with  the  conduct  of  a  mule 
which  was  no  disgrace  to  the  reputation  of  its  species, 
Mr.  Burton  enjoyed  the  magnificent  scene  which  opened 
before  him,  as  he  approached  the  hacienda  of  Don 
Miguel.  It  lay  at  the  foot  of  a  low  mountain,  first  of 
the  brotherhood  which  overtopped  it,  and  stood  look- 
ing over  its  shoulder.  Rich  plains,  some  of  them 
highly  cultivated,  and  others  covered  with  the  grazing 
herds  of  a  thousand  cattle,  lay  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
which  was  heavily  timbered,  and  down  which  leaped  a 
sparkling  cascade,  not  more  beautiful  to  the  eye  than 
promising  of  freshness  to  the  pastures  below,  and  of 
"  water-privileges"  to  the  mines  understood  to  lay 
somewhere  in  the  canons  of  the  mountain. 

Before  entering  upon  the  estates  which  he  had  now 
reached,  Mr.  Burton  secured  a  night's  lodging  for  his 
peons,  at  a  hovel  by  the  roadside,  and  having  abun- 
dantly rewarded  them,  dismissed  them  from  his  service, 
riding  forward  alone  along  the  private  carriage-way, 
which,  through  groves  of  flowering  trees  and  fragrant 
peach-orchards,  led  up  to  the  long,  low,  spacious  man- 
sion of  Don  Miguel. 

By  the  servant  who  came  forth  to  receive  him  he 
was  informed  that  the  master  of  the  place  was  at  home, 
and  was  soon  shown  into  his  presence,  in  the  cool,  tile- 
floored  sitting-room,  in  which  he  was  lounging,  wait- 
ing for  the  supper-hour. 

Mr.  Burton's  powers  of  pleasing  were  too  great,  and 
12 


264  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

his  refinement  too  real,  for  him  to  fail  in  making  the 
impression  he  desired  upon  the  gentleman  into  whose 
house  he  had  intruded  himself.  The  cold  courtesy  with 
which  he  was  at  first  received,  soon  took  a  tinge  of 
warmth,  and  it  was  with  sincere  cordiality  that  Don 
Miguel  offered  him  the  hospitalities  of  his  home, 
and  full  liberty  to  make  all  the  researches  he 
might  desire  upon  his  estate.  The  habitual  dislike  of 
the  Spaniard  for  "los  Yankees,"  M-rmrd  .|iiite  over- 
come in  the  case  of  Don  Miguel,  by  his  friendship  for 
his  son-in-law,  of  whom  he  soon  spoke,  anticipating  the 
pleasure  it  would  give  Dr.  Seltzer  to  meet  a  ijentleinaii 
so  recently  from  his  old  home,  New  York.  On  this 
account  he  made  the  stranger  doubly  welcome.  Mr. 
Burton  was  interested  in  his  host,  ami  liked  him,  per- 
cei\  im_r  him  to  l>e  intelligent,  generous  ami  enthusiast  ic  ; 
his  heart  rebuked  him  when  lie  thought  of  the  mission 
upon  which  he  had  COine  into  this  little  retired  Para- 
dise, so  remote  from  the  world  and  so  lovely  in  itself 
that  it  did  seem  as  if  evil  ought  to  have  forgotten  it. 

The  two  had  conversed  nearly  an  hour,  when  Don 
Miguel  said, 

"It  is  now  our  supper-hour.  Allow  a  servant  to 
show  you  to  your  apartment,  where  we  will  give  you 
time  to  at  least  bathe  your  face  and  hands  after  your 
weary  ride.  1  was  to  entertained  with  the  news  that 
you  bring  me  from  the  States  that  I  have  negl. 
your  comfort.  Dr.  Seltzer  went  up  on  the  mountain,  to- 
day, to  look  after  our  mining  interest*  a  little,  but  I 
expect  his  return  every  moment.  He  will  be  charmed 
to  meet  a  countryman." 

This  last  assertion  Mr.  Burton  doubted,  for  he  knew 
that  the  remorse  of  a  guilty  conscience  stung  the  pos- 
sessor into  a  restlessness  which  made  any  unexpected 
event  a  matter  of  suspicion.  As  the  door  cloned  upon 
him  in  the  large,  airy  chamber  into  which  he  was 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  WIFE.  265 

ushered,  he  sunk,  for  a  few  moments,  into  a  chair,  and 
something  like  a  tremor  shook  his  usually  steady  nerves. 
He  stood  so  close  upon  the  probable  accomplishment 
of  the  object  he  had  kept  in  view  for  two  years,  that, 
for  an  instant,  excitement  overcame  him.  He  soon 
rallied,  however,  and  at  the  end  of  fifteen  minutes, 
when  the  peon  came  in  again  to  announce  supper,  he 
had  toned  up  his  courage  with  a  plentiful  dash  of 
cold  water,  and  was  never  more  his  own  peculiar  self, 
than  when  he  set  foot  in  the  supper-room.  A  glance 
told  him  that  the  absent  member  of  the  family  had  not 
yet  returned  ;  only  two  persons  were  present,  his  host, 
and  the  beautiful  woman  whom  he  introduced  as  his 
daughter,  Mrs.  Seltzer.  The  three  sat  down  to  the 
table,  which  was  covered  with  an  elegant  repast,  the 
first  dish  of  which  was  a  fine-flavored  roast  wild-turkey. 

There  was  a  plentiful  supply  of  porcelain  and  silver- 
ware ;  it  did  not  take  five  seconds  for  the  guest  to  de- 
cide that  the  quondam  druggist  of  Blankville — if  this 
were  indeed  the  person,  as  he  assumed  with  such  cer- 
tainty— had  gotten  himself  into  enviable  quarters. 

As  his  penetrating  glance  rested  on  the  exquisite  face 
which  confronted  him  across  the  "  pale  specter  of  the 
salt,"  he  kept  asking  himself,  with  inward  anguish,  why 
it  was  that  he  had  not  circumvented  this  adventurer 
sooner,  before  the  young,  girlish  creature  he  saw  before 
him  had  involved  her  fate  with  that  of  the  guilty. 

Beautiful  as  our  dreamiest  fancies  of  Spanish  women 
she  was,  according  to  the  report  of  Mr.  Burton,  and  he 
was  no  enthusiast.  He  saw  that  she  was  as  uneasy  as 
a  bird  which  misses  its  mate,  her  black  eyes  constantly 
wandering  to  the  door,  and  her  ear  so  preoccupied  with 
listening  for  the  expected  step  as  scarcely  to  take  note 
of  the  remarks  made  to  her  by  the  stranger.  Once  she 
asked  him,  with  much  interest,  if  he  had  known  Dr. 
Seltzer  in  New  York,  but  upon  his  answering  in  the 


266  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

.negative,  he  could  guess  that  he  had  fallen  in  her  esteem, 
Mbr    she    immediately  withdrew  her    attention    from 
him. 

The  senses  of  the  guest  were  all  keenly  on  the  alert  ; 
but  it  was  by  the  sudden  fire  which  leaped  and  melted 
in  the  eyes  of  the  Donna,  and  the  rich  color  which  shot 
into  her  hitherto  olive  cheek,  that  he  was  informed  of 
the  approach  of  her  husband.  She  had  heard  the  rapid 
gallop  of  his  horse  afar  oft',  and  now  sat.  mute  and  ex- 
pectant, until  he  should  arrive  at  the  irate.  rr<>--  the 
veranda  and  enter  the  room.  In  three  minutes  he  -i,,,,,l 
in  the  supper-room.  The  visitor  met  him  just  in  the 
manner  he  would  have  most  desired — when  the  man 
wa-<  entirely  unwarned  of  company,  and  had  no  chance 
to  put  on  a  mask.  Outwardly  .Mr.  Uurtoii  was  serene 
as  a  summer  day,  but  inwardly  his  teeth  wen-  set  upon 
each  other  to  keep  his  tongue  from  crying  out—"  T/iis 
M  the  manF  When  Dr.  Selt/.er  fust  percched  a  stran- 
ger in  the  room,  and  heard  his  father-in-law  sa\ .  "A 
countryman  of  yours,  from  New  York,  doctor,"  his 
Blight  start  of  surprise  would,  to  most  persons,  have 
appeared  no  more  than  natural  ;  but  the  per-oii  whose 
Courteous  eye  met  his,  saw  in  it  the  fir-t  impulse  of  an 
ever-ready  apprehension  -an  alarm,  covered  instantly 
by  a  false  warmth  of  manner  which  caused  him  !• 
the  stranger  wth  extreme  friendlii 

The  new-comer  retired  for  a  moment  to  his  room  to 
prepare  for  the  meal  ;  upon  his  taking  his  place  at  table, 
hot  dishes  were  brought  in;  the  Donna  seemed  also  to 
have  recovered  her  appetite,  \\hich  had  been  spoiled  by 
his  absence;  a  gay  and  social  hour  folloucd. 

Dr.  Seltzer  might  have  been   L'""d-l..okinLr  had  his 

eyes  not  poWCWO'l   the  shifting,  uncertain   Lrl.ni.-.-   that, 

ft  before  a   soul  which  dares    not.    frankly  meet    its 

fellows,  and  had  not  an  evil  expression  predominated  on 

his  features.    His  face  was  one  which  would  hav. 


DETAILS.  267 

distrusted  in  any  intelligent  company  of  our  own  people; 
but  the  Spaniards,  with  whom  he  was  now  associated, 
were  so  accustomed  to  treachery  and  untruth  among 
their  race,  and  so  familiar  with  kindred  features  and 
subtle  black  eyes,  that  he,  doubtless,  had  never  impress- 
ed them  unfavorably.  A  Spaniard  he  was  at  heart,  and 
he  had  found,  in  his  present  life,  a  congenial  sphere. 
Not  that  all  Spaniards  are  necessarily  murderers — but 
their  code  of  right  and  wrong  is  different  from  ours. 
Don  Miguel  was  an  excellent  gentleman,  honorable,  to 
an  unusual  degree  for  a  Mexican,  real  and  sanguine  in 
his  feelings,  and  thoroughly  deceived  as  to  the  charac- 
ter and  acquirements  of  the  person  to  whom  he  had 
confided  so  much.  It  was  the  bitter  flavor  in  the  cup 
of  his  assured  triumph  that  Mr.  Burton,  in  bringing  the 
villain  to  bay,  must  shock  this  amiable  host,  and  ruin 
the  happiness  of  his  innocent  child. 

After  supper,  they  sat  on  the  veranda  a  couple  of 
hours.  The  half-filled  moon  sunk  down  behind  the 
groves  of  fragrant  trees  ;  the  stars  burned  in  the  sky, 
large,  and,  to  a  Northern  eye,  preternaturally  bright ; 
the  wind  was  luscious  with  warmth  and  sweetness ; 
and  the  beautiful  woman,  whose  soft  eyes  dwelt  ever  on 
the  face  of  her  husband,  looked  yet  more  lovely  in  the 
clear  moonlight.  (Through  all  the  eai'nestness  of  his 
story,  my  friend  dwelt  on  these  details,  because  he  ob- 
served them  at  the  time,  and  they  became  a  part  of  the 
narrative  in  his  mind.) 

The  conversation  was  principally  upon  mining.  Mr. 
Burton  had  sufficient  scientific  knowledge  to  make  it 
apparent  that  his  exploring  expedition  was  for  the  pur- 
pose of  adding  to  that  knowledge.  Before  they  sepa- 
rated for  the  night,  Dr.  Seltzer  had  promised  to  escort 
him,  on  the  following  day,  over  all  the  mountainous 
portion  of  the  ranch. 

The  visitor  retired  early,  being  fatigued  with  his 


268  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

journey;  bnt  he  did  not  sleep  us  quietly  as  usual.  He 
wa-  disturbed  by  the  oneron>.  duty  to  \\hich  IK-  had  de- 
votcd  himself.  Visions  of  tin-  DUDIIM.  pale  with  trrief 
and  reproach,  and  of  tin-  interview  which  In-  had  re- 
solved  upon  with  the  murderer,  alone  on  the  mountain- 
side, when,  by  the  force  of  will,  and  the  suddenness .  >f  t  he 
accusation,  he  expected  to  wring  from  him  the  desired 
confession — kept  him  long  awake.  Once,  lie  half  rose 
in  his  bed  ;  for,  lying  in  that  feverish  condition  when 
all  the  senses  arc  exalted,  lie  heard,  or  fancied  he  heard, 
the  handle  of  the  door  turned,  and  a  person  step  silently 
into  the  apartment.  Knowing  the  thievish  propcositiei 
of  the  Spanish  servants,  he  had  no  doubt  Imt  one  of 
these  had  entered  for  purposes  of  robber  v  :  he  the: 
remained  quiet,  but  ready  t<>  pounce  upon  the  intruder 
should  he  detect  him  approaching  the  bed.  The  room 
was  entirely  dark,  the  moon  having  set  some  time  be- 
fore. Whether  he  made  some  sound  when  rising  on 
his  couch,  or  whether  the  visitor  gave  up  his  purpose 
at  the  last  moment,  he  could  only  conjecture;  alter 
some  moments  of  absolute  silence  he  heard  the  do,,r 
drawn  softly  together  again,  and  was  eons, -inns  of  being 
alone.  Soon  after  this  he  dropped  asleep,  and  au  oke 
in  the  dawn  to  find  his  purse  and  garments  undis- 
turbed. 

He  was  summoned  to  an  early  breakfast,  which  was 
partaken  of  by  the  two  excursionists  alone  ;  his  com- 
panion was,  if  possible,  more  social  and  friendly  than 
on  the  previous  evening.  It  was  yet  hardly  sunrise 
when  they  arose  from  the  table  to  mount  the  horses 

which  awaited  them  at  the  door.  A  basket  of  lunch 
Was  attached  to  the  pummel  of  1  )r.  Selt/.ci  "s  saddle, 
whose  parting  injunction  to  the  servant  wa 
dinner  at  four,  as  they  should  .stand  in  need  of  it 
upon  their  return.  Then,  through  a  world  of  dew, 
coolness  and  perfume,  glittering  with  the  first  rays 


SHOWING   THE   MINES.  269 

of  the  sun,  the  two  men  rode  off  toward  the  moun- 
tains. 

After  following  a  good  road  some  five  or  six  miles, 
they  commenced  climbing  the  first  of  the  series  of  hills 
?of  which  mention  has  been  made.  The  road  here  was 
still  tolerable ;  but  when  they  advanced  into  the  im- 
mediate region  of  the  mines  they  were  compelled  to 
abandon  their  horses,  which  were  left  at  a  small  build- 
ing, belonging  to  the  ranch,  and  to  proceed  on  foot 
into  the  mountain  gorges. 

The  scenery  now  became  wild  beyond  mere  pic- 
turesqueness — it  was  startling,  desolate,  grand.  Traces 
of  old  mines,  once  worked,  but  now  deserted,  were 
everywhere  visible.  Finally  they  came  to  a  new 
"  lead,"  which  was  being  successfully  worked  by  the 
peons  of  Don  Miguel.  There  were  some  forty  of 
these  men  at  work,  under  an  overseer.  Dr.  Seltzer 
showed  his  companion  the  recent  improvements  which 
had  been  made ;  the  machinery  which  he  himself  had 
introduced,  and  a  portion  of  which  he  had  invented ; 
stating  that,  under  the  system  which  he  himself  had 
introduced,  Don  Miguel  was  growing  a  rich  man  faster 
than  he  previously  had  any  idea  was  possible.  The 
mountain-stream,  spoken  of  as  being  visible  at  a  great 
distance,  glittering  from  hight  to  bight,  was  here 
made  to  do  the  unromantic  work  of  washing  the  ore 
and  grinding  it.  The  overseer  was  called  upon  by  the 
host  to  give  every  desirable  information  to  the  traveler, 
and  here  a  long  visit  was  made.  Lunch  was  partaken 
of  under  the  cool  shadow  of  a  ledge  of  rock ;  and 
then  Dr.  Seltzer  proposed,  if  his  visitor  was  not  already 
too  much  fatigued,  to  take  him  higher  up,  to  a  spot 
which  he  had  discovered  only  the  day  before,  and  which 
he  had  every  reason  to  believe  contained  a  richer  de- 
posit of  silver  than  any  vein  heretofore  opened — in 
fact,  he  thought  a  fortune  lay  hidden  in  the  wild  gorge 


270  THE   DEAD  LETTER. 

to  which  he  referred,  and  he  anxiously  invited  the  sci- 
entific observation  of  his  guest. 

This  was  just  (hi-  opportunity  f<>r  IK-'HILJ  alone  with 
his  man  that  Mr.  Burton  doired.  It  may  seem  M  ran  ire. 
that  he  proposed  to  confront  the  murderer  with  his 
guilt  in  this  solitary  manner  with  no  witnesses  to  cor- 
roborate any  testimony  he  miirht  wriiiLT  from  llio 
guilty;  but  the  detect ive  knew  enou'_rh  of  human  na- 
ture to  know  that  the  confronted  criminal  is  almost 
always  a  coward,  and  he  had  no  fear  that  this  person, 
if  guilty,  accused  of  his  false  name  and  falser  character, 
would  refuse  to  do  what  he  demanded  of  him.  Again, 
his  principal  object,  more  important  1>\  far  than  the 
•very  of  the  actual  hired  assassin,  was  to  gain 
from  the  frightened  accomplice  a  full,  explicit  confes- 
sion of  who  had tetnj>tt<l  him  t<>  ////  crime — who  \\.i- 
really  the  most  guilty  murderer — whose  money  had 
paid  for  the  dred  which  his  own  dastardly  hand  had 
shrunk  from.  Strong  in  resources  which  never  yet  had 
failed  him,  .Mr.  Burton  was  anxious  for  the  singular 
encounter  he  iiad  dc\i>ed. 

\ing  all  traces  of  man  behind  them,  the  two 
climbed  a  nigged  path,  and  entered  a  canon,  through 
the  center  of  which  roared  M  foaming  torrent,  and  which 
WM  BO  deep  and  sheltered  that  c\  en  at  this  noon-hour 
the  path  was  cool  and  the  sunlight  tempered.  As  they 
walked  or  clambered  on,  both  men  gradually  grew 
silent.  Of  what  Dr.  S.lt/.er  might  bo  thinking  .Mr. 
Burton  did  not  know — his  own  mind  was  absorbed  in 
the  scene  which  he  was  awaiting  the  carliiM  lining 
moment  to  enact.  The  doctor,  who  should  have  a<  tt  <1 
as  guide,  had,  somehow,  chanced  to  lau  Ix-hind. 

"  Which  direction  shall  I  take  ?"  asked  Mr.  Burton, 

:itly. 

"  .Wend    the   narrow  deli!,-  to  the  ri-rht,"  railed   out 
hi*  companion,  pressing  after  him,  "  but  be  cautious  of 


TURNED   UPON.  271 

your  footing.  A  misstep  may  hurl  you  upon  the  rocks 
below.  In  three  minutes  we  shall  be  in  a  safe  and 
beautiful  region,  with  our  feet,  literally,  treading  a 
silver  floor." 

As  he  spoke  thus,  he  drew  nearer,  but  the  path  was 
too  narrow  to  allow  him  to  take  the  advance,  and  Mr. 
Burton  continued  to  lead  the  way. 

The  subtle  perceptions  of  the  detective,  a  magnetism 
which  amounted  almost  to  the  marvelous,  I  have  so 
frequently  referred  to,  that  my  reader  will  understand 
how  it  was  that  Mr.  Burton,  thus  in  the  van,  and  not 
looking  at  all  at  his  companion,  felt  a  curious,  prickly 
sensation  run  along  his  nerves.  He  came  to  the  nar- 
rowest part  of  the  dangerous  path.  An  immense  rock 
reached  up,  a  mighty  wall,  upon  the  right,  and  to  the 
left,  far  below  the  uneven,  stony  and  brier-grown  ledge 
along  which  he  was  picking  his  steps,  foamed  and 
roared  the  torrent,  over  rocks  which  thrust  themselves 
here  and  there  above  the  yeasty  water.  Directly  in 
front  arose  an  obstacle  in  the  shape  of  a  projection  of 
the  rock  some  three  or  four  feet  in  hight,  covered  with 
tough  little  bushes,  one  of  which  he  took  hold  of  to 
draw  himself  up  by. 

However,  instead  of  pulling  himself  up,  as  his  action 
seemed  to  indicate  that  he  was  about  to  do,  he  turned 
and  grasped  the  arm  of  Dr.  Seltzer.  His  movement 
was  rapid  as  lightning,  but  it  was  not  made  a  moment 
too  soon.  The  arm  which  he  held  in  a  clasp  of  steel 
was  raised  to  strike,  and  a  Spanish  dirk  was  in  the  hand. 

A  stealthy,  murderous  light,  almost  red  in  its  inten- 
sity, burned  in  the  eyes  which  now  sunk  before  his. 
An  instant  the  foiled  assassin  stood  surprised ;  then 
commenced  a  struggle  between  the  two  men.  Dr. 
Seltzer  made  desperate  efforts  to  hurl  his  antagonist 
into  the  torrent  beneath  ;  but,  though  frantic  with  rage 
and  hate,  his  violent  exertions  did  not  effect  their 
12* 


272  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

object.  On  the  contrary,  Mr.  Burton,  calm  and  self- 
possessed,  despite  an  instant's  astonishment,  pressed 
his  adversary  backward  alon^  tin-  narrow  path  until 
they  were  both  on  safe  ground,  in  the  middle  of  a  little 
grassy  plateau,  which  they  had  lately  traversed,  where 
he  held  him,  having  disarmed  him  of  his  knit'e. 

What  had  caused  his  momentary  astonishment  was 
the  fact  that  Dr.  Seltzer  knew  him  and  su>|.ected  his 
object,  which  truth  he  instantly  comprehended,  upon 
turning  and  reading  the  murderous  eyes  that  met  his. 
Now,  as  he  held  him,  he  remarked, 

"  Another  stab  in  the  back,  George  Thorley  ?" 

"  Well,  and  what  did  you  come  here  for,  you  ac- 
cursed New  York  detective  ?" 

"  I  came  to  persuade  you  to  turn  State's  evidence." 

"What  about?" — there  was  a  slight  change  in  the 
voice,  which  told,  against  his  will,  that  the  adventurer 
felt  relieved. 

"  I  want  you  to  give  your  written  and  sworn  toti- 
mony  as  to  who  it  was  hired  you,  for  the  sum  of  two 
thousand  dollars,  to  murder  Mr.  Moreland,  at  Blank- 
ville,  on  the  17th  of  October,  1857." 

"Who  said  I  murdered  him?  Humph!  you  must 
think  I'm  decidedly  simple  to  be  coaxed  or  frightened 
into  committing  myself." 

"  We'll  not  waste  words,  Thorley.  I  know  you,  all 
your  history,  all  your  bad  deeds — or  enough  of  them  to 
hang  you.  I  have  a  warrant  for  your  arrest  in  my 
pocket,  which  I  brought  from  the  States  with  me.  I 
could  have  brought  an  escort  from  Acapulco,  and  ar- 
rested you  at  once,  without  «i\-\i\£  you  any  chance  for 
explanation.  I'.ut  I  have  my  own  reasons  for  desiring 
to  keep  this  matter  quiet— one  of  which  is  that  I  do 
not  wish  any  premature  report  to  alarm  }om  accom- 
plice, man  or  woman,  whichever  it  is,  until  I  can  put 
my  hand  on  the  right  person." 


"A  MAN'S  LITE  is  HIS  BEST  POSSESSION."     2^3 

"  What  makes  you  think  that  I  did  it  ?" 

"  No  matter  what  makes  me  think  so — I  don't  think, 
I  know.  I  have  the  instrument  with  which  you  com- 
mitted the  act,  with  your  initials  on  the  handle.  I  have 
the  letter  you  wrote  to  your  accomplice,  claiming  your 
reward.  In  short,  I've  proof  enough  to  convict  you 
twice  over.  The  only  hope  you  have  of  any  mercy 
from  me  is  in  at  once  doing  all  that  I  ask  of  you — 
which  is  to  give  a  full  written  statement,  over  your 
real  name,  of  all  the  circumstances  which  led  to  the 
murder." 

"  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  to  tie  the  rope  around  my 
own  neck." 

As  he  made  this  answer,  he  gave  a  powerful  jerk  to 
extricate  himself  from  the  unpleasant  position  in  which 
he  was  held.  Mr.  Burton  drew  a  revolver  from  his 
breast-pocket,  remarking, 

"  I  will  not  hold  you,  Thorley  ;  but  just  as  sure  as 
you  make  an  attempt  to  get  away,  I  will  shoot  you. 
Supposing  you  succeeded  in  getting  free  from  me — 
what  good  would  that  do  you  ?  Your  prospects  here 
would  be  ruined ;  for  I  should  expose  you  to  Don 
Miguel.  You  would  have  to  flee  from  wife,  country 
and  fortune;  all  you  would  preserve  would  be  your 
rascally  life,  which  I  do  not  propose,  at  present,  to 
take." 

"  A  man's  life  is  his  best  possession." 

"  A  truth  you  would  have  done  well  to  remember 
before  you  took  away  the  life  of  another.  I  can't  talk 
to  such  a  scoundrel  as  you,  Thorley ;  I  fairly  ache  to 
inflict  upon  you  the  punishment  you  deserve.  It  is  for 
the  sake  of  others,  in  whom  I  am  interested,  that  I  give 
you  this  one  chance  of  mercy.  Here  is  paper,  pen  and 
ink  ;  sit  down  on  that  stone  there,  and  write  what  I  ask- 
ed of  you." 

"What    security    do    you    offer    me    against    the 


274  THE    DEAD    LETTER. 

consequences  of  criminating  myself?     I  want  you  to 
promise  I  shall  In-  none  the  w<»r>c  oil'  for  it." 

u  You  are  too  fully  in  my  power  to  «1 
of  me.  Yet  this  I  will  consent  to,  M  I  >:ii.l  l.i-1'..iv,  f..r 
the  sake  of  others — to  let  you  140  unprU.n,  >i  1,\  the 
warrant  I  hold  against  you,  and  never  to  put  the  ofli- 
cers  of  justice  on  your  track.  One  tiling.  however,  I 
must  and  shall  do.  I  can  not  leave  this  Paradise,  into 
which  you  have  crept  like  the  serpent,  without  warning 
Don  3Iiiruel  what  manner  of  creature  he  is  ini.-tingand 

sheltering." 

"  Oh,  don't  do  that,  Mr.  Burton !  He'll  turn  me  off 
on  the  world  again,  and  I  shall  be  exposed  to  the  same 
temptations  as  ever — and  here  I  was  leading  a  better 
life — I  was  indeed — reformed,  quite  reformed  and  re- 
pentant." 

"So  reformed  and  repentant,  so  very  excellent,  that 
you  were  only  prevented,  but  now,  from  killing  me  and 
tumbling  me  into  this  convenient  ravine,  by  my  own 
prudence." 

"  Every  thing  was  at  stake,  you  know.  I  was  des- 
perate. You  must  forgive  me.  It  would  not  lie  natu- 
ral for  me  to  submit  to  see  all  I  had  trained  snatched 
auay  from  me — my  life  periled.  I  reco^ni/.ed  y,,ii 
within  live  minutes  after  sitting  down  to  the  supper- 
table  last  night." 

"I  had  no  idea  you  had  ever  M-CU  me."  said  M  . 
Burton,  willing  to  hear  how  it  was  that  this  man 
knew  him,  when  he  had  never  met  Thorley  until  yes- 
t.T.lay. 

"I  was  interested,  once,  in  a  forgery  case  in  which 
yon  were  employed  to  detect  the  criminals,  by  the  ex- 
amination of  several  handwritings  which  were  iriven 
you.  You  accused  a  highly  respectable  fellow-. -iti/fn, 
to  the  astonishment  of  everybody,  and  corniced  l.im, 
too.  I,  whom  he  had  employed  as  an  ::^e.jt  in  some 


"NO   LIES."  275 

transactions,  but  who  did  not  appear  in  any  manner  in 
the  case,  saw  you  in  the  court-room  once  or  twice.  I 
accidentally  found  out  that  you  were  a  secret  agent  of 
the'  detective  police.  When  I  saw  you  here,  playing 
the  scientific  gentleman,  my  conscience  was  not  so  easy 
as  to  blind  me.  I  saw  the  game,  and  what  was  at 
stake.  I  had  the  choice  between  my  own  safety  or 
yours.  I  wasn't  so  self-denying  as  to  decide  in  your 
favor,  and  so — " 

"  You  visited  my  room  last  night." 

"  Yes.  But,  on  second  thought,  I  decided  that  to-day 
would  give  me  the  better  opportunity.  Had  you  waited 
a  second  longer,  your  friends  would  have  had  a  hard 
time  tracing  your  fate.  An  excuse  to  my  father-in-law, 
that  you  had  returned  to  Acapulco  without  stopping, 
by  a  nearer  route,  would  have  ended  inquiry  here." 
He  set  his  teeth,  as  he  concluded,  unable  to  conceal  how 
much  he  regretted  that  this  convenient  denouement  had 
been  interrupted.  "  Was  it  chance  caused  you  to  turn  ?" 
he  continued,  after  a  moment's  silence. 

"  It  was  watchfulness.  I  thought  I  saw  murder  in 
your  eyes  once  before,  to-day,  when  I  met  them  sud- 
denly ;  but  as  I  believed  myself  unknown  .to  you,  I 
could  hardly  credit  my  own  impression.  It  grew  upon 
me,  however,  as  we  proceeded,  and  '  by  the  pricking  of 
my  ribs,'  I  turned  in  time  to  prevent  the  compliment 
you  were  about  to  pay  me.  But  this  is  wasting  time. 
Write  what  I  expect  of  you.  I  shall  permit  no  lies. 
I  can  tell  when  I  see  one,  or  hear  one.  If  you  say 
any  thing  which  is  not  true,  I  shall  make  you  correct 
it." 

Coerced  by  the  eye  which  never  ceased  to  watch  his 
slightest  movement,  and  by  the  revolver  held  in  range 
of  his  breast,  the  reluctant  doctor  took  the  sheet  of 
paper  and  the  fountain-pen  which  were  offered  him,  sat 
down  on  the  stone,  and,  with  the  top  of  his  sombrero 


276  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

for  a  desk,  wrote  slowly  for  ten  or  fifteen  minutes. 
Then  he  arose  and  handed  the  document,  which  was 
signed  with  his  real  name,  to  the  detective,  who,  with 
one  eye  on  his  prisoner, 'and  one  on  the  paper,  continued 
to  read  the  evidence  without  giving  his  companion  a 
chance  to  profit  by  any  relaxation  of  his  vigilance. 

"  You  have  told  the  truth,  for  once  in  your  lite,"  was 
his  remark,  as  he  finished  reading  the  paper.  u  I  had 
found  this  out  myself,  fact  for  fact,  all  but  one  or  two 
facts  which  you  give  here  ;  but  I  preferred  having  your 
testimony  before  I  brought  the  matter  before  the  proper 
parties,  therefore  I  came  here  after  it " — speaking  as  if 
a  trip  to  Acapulco  were  one  of  the  easiest  and  most 
commonplace  of  things. 

"  You're  d d  cool  about  it,"  remarked  the  adven- 
turer, eying  his  adversary  with  a  glance  of  hate,  with 
which  was  mingled  a  forced  admiration  of  a  "sharp- 
ness" which,  had  he  himself  possessed  it,  he  could 
have  used  to  such  advantage.  "And  now,  maybe 
you'll  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  if  the  affair  kicked  up 
much  of  a  row." 

"I  can  not  talk  with  you.  I  want  you  to  lead  the 
way  back  to  our  horses,  for,  since  my  business  with 
you  is  finished,  I  may  say  that  I  do  not  fancy  your 
company.  You  must  go  with  me  before  Don  Miguel, 
and  we  will  enlighten  him  as  to  your  true  charac- 
ter, since  with  him  to  be  '  forewarned  may  be  fore- 
armed.' " 

"  Oh,  don't  do  that  1  I  beg  you  to  spare  me  for  my 
wife's  sake — it  would  kill  her,  she  loves  me  so  much  !" 
and  the  creature  dropped  on  his  knees. 

"I  would,  indeed,  rather  than  blast  her  innocent 
heart  with  such  knowledge,  allow  you  still  to  play  your 
part  in  that  little  family,  but  I  know  that,  sooner  or 
later,  you  will  contrive  to  break  the  heart  of  that  con- 
fiding woman,  and  it  might  be  worse  in  the  future  than 


AN    UNPLEASANT  DUTY.  277 

even  now.  She  has  yet  no  children ;  she  is  young,  and 
the  wound  may  heal.  It  is  an  unpleasant  duty,  which  I 
must  perform." 

Then  followed  a  scene  of  begging,  prayers,  even  tears 
upon  one  side,  and  relentless  purpose  on  the  other. 


278  THK    DEAD    LETTKB. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

NOW  FOB  HOME  AGAIN. 

DB.  SELTZEB  and  his  scientific  friend  returned  down  tho 
mountain,  reaching  the  flowery  carriage-way  which  led 
up  to  the  mansion  about  four  p.  M.  ;  but  here  the  former 
suddenly  whirled  his  horse  and  set  off  toward  Aeapul- 
co,  at  his  utmost  speed.  Mr.  Burton  did  not  I'm  :it 
him,  to  stop  him ;  if  he  wished  to  run  away  from  the 
horrible  exposure  which  he  had  not  tbeoOQFftgQ  t«>  lace, 
it  was  no  longer  any  business  ol'  the  detective.  This 
very  flight  would  prove  his  guilt  the  more  inrontest- 
ably.  It  was  with  a  pang  oi'  pity  that  he-  noticed  the 
Donna,  coming  forth  on  the  pia/./.a  with  a  face  illumined 
with  expectation  of  meeting  her  husband  ;  lie  replied  to 
her  inquiry,  that  the  doctor  had  gone  down  the  road 
without  saying  how  long  he  expected  to  be  gone  ;  a*nd 
asking  a  private  interview  with  Don  Miguel,  he  at  once, 
without  circumlocution,  laid  before  him  the  painful 
facts. 

Of  course  the  Don  was  shocked  and  grieved  beyond 
expression,  more  on  his  daughter's  account  than  »n  his 
own;  and  blamed  himself  severely  for  having  intro- 
duced a  stranger,  without  proper  credentials,  into  his 
confidence.  If  the  murder  had  been  eoiimiitted  from 
jealousy,  anger,  or  upon  any  impulse  of  passion,  he 
would  not  have  thought  so  badly  of  the  young  man  ; 
but  that  it  should  have  )><••  u  done  for  money  was  to 
him  an  irreparable  crime  and  disgrace. 

Mr.  Burton  had  thought  <>f  returning  to  Acapulco 
that  afternoon  and  evening,  considering  that  his  pres- 
ence could  not  be  welcome  to  the  family  under  such 
circumstances;  but  Don  Miguel  positively  forbade  him 


DON  MIGUEL'S  LOSS.  279 

to  attempt  the  journey  at  that  late  hour,  as  it  might 
be  dangerous  at  any  time,  and  now,  if  the  doctor  wish- 
ed to  revenge  himself  upon  his  betrayer,  a  better  op- 
portunity could  not  occur  than  on  this  lonely  road, 
where  he  might  linger  in  the  expectation  of  his  passing. 
From  the  interview  which  followed  between  the  father 
and  his  child,  Mr.  Burton  was  absent ;  he  saw  no  more 
of  the  beautiful  young  wife,  for  he  left  the  hacienda 
early  the  following  morning ;  but  her  father  informed 
him  that  she  bore  the  news  better  than  he  expected — 
simply  because  she  refused  to  believe  in  the  guilt  of 
her  husband ! 

Don  Miguel  and  two  of  his  servants  accompanied 
Mr.  Burton  all  the  way  back  to  town  ;  the  Don  affirm- 
ing that  he  had  some  business  requiring  a  visit  to  the 
city  sooner  or  later  ;  though  his  guest  knew  very  well 
that  his  real  object  was  to  protect  hihi  from  any  danger 
wli'u-h  might  threaten.  For  this  he  was  grateful, 
though  his  courage  did  not  shrink,  even  from  the  idea 
of  secret  assassination. 

He  was  detained  in  Acapulco  several  days  before  he 
had  an  opportunity  of  leaving  for  the  isthmus.  During 
that  time  he  learned,  by  a  messenger  whom  Don  Miguel 
sent  him,  that,  during  the  Don's  absence  from  the 
house  in  the  two  days  of  his  journey  to  town  and  back, 
Dr.  Seltzer  had  returned  there,  possessed  himself  of 
every  ai'ticle  of  value  which  he  could  carry  away  upon 
his  person,  including  the  Donna's  jewels,  which  she  had 
inherited  from  her  mother,  and  a  large  sum  in  gold,  and 
had  persuaded  his  wife  to  accompany  his  flying  fortunes 
to  some  unknown  region.  In  the  letter  which  Don 
Miguel  wrote  to  the  stranger,  he  expressed  himself  as 
one  robbed  and  left  desolate.  It  was  not  the  loss  of 
money  or  jewels,  but  the  loss  of  his  poor,  confiding, 
loving  child,  that  he  dwelt  upon.  The  Donna's  was 
one  of  those  impulsive,  impassioned  natures  which 


280  THE   DEAD  LETTER. 

must  love,  even  if  it  knows  the  object  unworthy.  No 
deed  which  her  husband  could  commit  c-ouM  make  him 
otherwise  to  her  than  the  man  with  whose  fate  her  own 
was  linked  for  "better  or  worse."  Mr.  Burton  folded 
up  the  letter  with  a  sigh  ;  no  power  of  his  could  amend 
the  fate  of  this  young  creature,  which  promised  to  be 
BO  sad. 

While  he  remained  in  the  ruinous  old  place  he  used 
extraordinary  precautions  to  insure  his  own  safety ;  for 
he  believed  that  Dr.  Seltzer,  or  George  Thorley,  would 
seek  revenge  upon  him,  not  only  for  the  sake  of  the  re- 
venge, but  to  silence  the  accusation  which  he  might 
carry  back  to  the  States.  It  was  well  that  he  was  thus 
careful,  as,  among  other  proofs  that  he  was  thus  pur- 
sued, was  the  following.  One  afternoon,  as  he  sat  in 
the  great,  breezy  corridor  of  the  hotel,  an  old  woman 
came  in  with  a  basket  and  offered  to  sell  him  some  par- 
ticularly fine  oranges.  He  bought  a  couple  of  the 
largest,  and  was  about  to  eat  one,  when  he  observed 
that  she  did  not  offer  the  fruit  to  any  other  customer  ; 
upon  this,  he  regarded  her  more  closely,  ami  was  satis- 
fied that  all  was  not  right.  When  she  iia<l  lingered  a 
titne  to  notice  if  he  ate  the  fruit,  he  strolled  out  to  the 
stn-ct,  and  in  her  presence  called  up  a  stray  pig,  to 
which  he  fed  pieces  of  the  orange.  When  she  saw  this, 
the  old  hag,  who  was  an  Indian,  quickly  disappeared, 
and  shortly  after  the  pig  died. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  feelings  of  satisfaction  that 
the  detective  finally  bade  farewell  to  Acapulco  on  a 
return  steamer.  He  had  waited  some  time  at  the  isth- 
mus, where  the  days  had  huni:  heavily,  Imt  he  had  com- 
forted himself  with  his  motto  about  patience  :  and  now, 
•••d  meat  the  close  of  his  narrative,  "  If  heav- 
en would  give  us  a  propitious  passage  home  we  should 
be  in  time— all  would  be  right." 

Day  wfM  breaking  when  Mr.  Burton  finished  his 


FEVERISH    ANXIETY.  281 

narrative ;  the  rain  had  ceased,  but  a  thick  fog  hung  over 
the  sea  and  land,  making  every  thing  gloomy  and  dis- 
agreeable. 

"  I  must  go  now,  and  awaken  my  little  girl,"  he  said, 
rising. 

"But  you  have  not  read  me  the  written  confession  of 
that  Thorley." 

"  Richard,  you  must  forgive  me  if  I  do  not  see  fit  to 
allow  you  to  read  it  at  present.  I  have  a  purpose  in  it, 
or  I  should  not  keep  back  from  you  any  of  my  own  in- 
formation. That  confession  did  not  surprise  me ;  I 
knew  the  murderer  long  ago,  but  I  could  not  prove  it. 
You  shall  soon  be  at  rest  about  this  affair.  I  only  pray, 
now,  for  a  speedy  voyage,  and  that  Leesy  Sullivan  may 
be  alive  when  we  reach  New  York.  Richard  !"  he  add- 
ed, with  a  passionate  gesture,  "  you  do^  not  dream 
what  a  constant  fever  I  am  in — I  am  so  afraid  we  shall 
be  too  late.  I  can  not  bear  the  horror  which  that  would 
be  to  me." 

And  indeed  it  did  seem,  at  that  time,  as  if  my  own 
engrossing  interest  was  scarcely  equal  to  that  of  my 
companion,  who  yet  had  nothing  at  all  at  stake,  while 
I  had  so  much.  Not  only  then,  but  at  various  other 
times  during  the  remainder  of  our  voyage,  he  expressed 
so  much  anxiety  lest  Miss  Sullivan  should  be  dead  be- 
fore we  arrived  home,  that  I,  who  was  always  torturing 
myself  with  conjectures,  again  revived  my  suspicions 
that  she  was  connected  with  the  murder. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  sun  arose  upon  the  bustle  of 
disembarking  from  the  steamer  to  the  cars.  Fortu- 
nately, the  fog  lifted  by  eight  o'clock,  and  we  could  en- 
joy the  magnificent  scenery  through  which  the  cars 
whirled  us — scenery  so  at  variance,  in  its  wildness  and 
the  exuberance  of  its  foliage,  and  the  secluded  aspect 
of  its  beauty,  with  this  noisy  wonder  of  civilization 
which  scattered  its  fiery  deluge  of  sparks  along  the 


282  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

path  of  gorgeous  tropical  flowers  waving  at  us,  some- 
times, in  long  streamors  of  bloom  from  the  topnu»t 
branches  of  gigantic  t: 

Nothing  occurred  to  mar  the  tranquillity  of  the  pas- 
sage home.  On  the  expected  day,  we  landed  at  the 
dock  in  New  York,  and  I  stepped  upon  the  earth  \\ith 
:i  curious,  excited  feeling,  now  that  we  drew  so  near  to 
the  close  of  our  efforts,  which  made  me  almost  light- 
headed. We  took  a  carriage  and  drove  to  Mr.  Burton's ; 
he  was  expected  by  the  housekeeper,  so  that  we  found 
the  house  prepared  for  our  reception.  A  fine  dinner 
\v:i»  served  at  the  usual  hour — but  I  could  not  eat.  Ap- 
petite and  sleep  fled  before  my  absorbing  anticipations. 
M  \  host,  who  noticed  my  intense,  repressed  excitement, 
promised  me,  before  I  retired  for  the  ni'_rht,  that  to-mor- 
row, God  willing,  the  secret  places  of  the  wicked  should 
belaid  bare — that  myself  and  all  those  interested  should 
witness  the  triumph  of  the  innocent  and  the  confusion 
of  the  guilty. 


"GOD  is  GOOD."  283 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

THE    RIPE    HOUK. 

I  AROSE  from  my  sleepless  bed  to  face  this,  the  most 
memorable  day  of  my  life.  Whether  I  ate  or  drank,  I 
know  not ;  but  I  noticed  that  Mr.  Burton's  countenance 
wore  a  peculiar,  illuminated  look,  as  if  his  soul  was  in- 
wardly rejoicing  over  a  victory  gained.  However, 
there  was  still  preoccupation  in  it,  and  some  perplexity. 
Immediately  after  breakfast,  he  proposed  to  go  out, 
saying, 

"  Richard,  remain  here  a  couple  of  hours  with  Le- 
nore,  until  I  find  out  whether  Miss  Sullivan  is  dead  or 
alive.  I  should  not  have  gone  to  bed  last  night  with- 
out knowing,  had  I  not  been  troubled  with  a  severe 
headache.  This  is  now  the  first  step  in  the  day's  duties. 
As  soon  as  possible  I  will  report  progress  j"  and  he 
went  out. 

The  time  of  his  absence  seemed  very  long.  Lenore, 
sweet  child,  with  much  of  her  father's  perception,  saw 
that  I  was  restless  and  impatient,  and  made  many 
pretty  efforts  to  entertain  me.  She  sung  me  some  of 
the  finest  music,  while  I  roamed  about  the  parlors  like 
an  ill-bred  tiger.  At  the  end  of  two  hours  my  friend 
returned,  looking  less  perplexed  than  when  he  went 
out. 

"  God  is  good  !"  he  said,  shaking  my  hand,  as  if  thus 
congratulating  me.  "  Leesy  Sullivan  is  alive,  but  very 
feeble.  She  is  scarcely  able  to  undertake  a  journey ; 
but,  since  I  have  explained  the  object,  she  has  consent- 
ed to  go.  She  says  she  is  so  near  death's  door,  that  it 
matters  not  how  soon  she  passes  through ;  and  she  is 
willing,  for  the  sake  of  others,  to  endure  a  trial  from 


284  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

which  she  might  naturally  shrink.  So  far,  then,  all  is 
well." 

Was  this  trial,  of  which  he  spoke,  that  pang  which 
she  must  feel  in  confessing  herself  implicated  in  this 
matter  ?  Did  he  think,  and  had  he  persuaded  her,  since 
she  was  too  far  gone  for  the  grasp  of  the  law  to  take 
hold  of  her,  she  might  now  confess  a  dangerous  and 
dark  secret  ? 

I  could  not  answer  the  questions  my  mind"  persisted 
in  asking.  "  It  will  be  but  a  few  hours,''  I  whispered 
to  myself. 

"  We  are  to  go  up  to  Blankville  by  the  evening  train," 
he  continued.  "  Leesy  will  accompany  us.  Until  that 
time,  there  is  nothing  to  do." 

I  would  rather  have  worked  at  breaking  stones  or 
lifting  barrels  than  to  have  kept  idle;  but,  as  the  de- 
u-rtive  wished  me  to  remain  in  the  house  as  a  matter  of 
caution  against  meeting  any  prying  acquaintance  upon 
the  streets,  I  was  forced  to  that  dreariest  of  all  things 
— to  wait.  The  hours  did  finally  pass,  and  Mr.  Burton 
set  out  first  with  a  carriage,  to  convey  Miss  Sullivan  to 
the  depot,  where  I  was  to  meet  him  in  time  for  the  five 
o'clock  train.  When  I  saw  her  then-,  I  wondered  how 
she  had  strength  to  endure  the  ride,  she  looked  so 
wasted — such  a  mere  flickering  spark  of  life,  which  a 
breath  might  extinguish.  Mr.  Burton  had  almost  to 
carry  her  into  the  car,  where  he  placed  her  on  a  seat, 
with  his  overcoat  for  a  pillow.  We  took  our  seats  op- 
posite to  her,  and  as  those  large,  unfathomable  eyes  met 
mine,  still  blazing  with  their  old  luster,  beneath  the 
pallid  brow,  I  can  not  describe  the  sensations  wlm-h 
rushed  over  me.  All  those  strange  scenes  through 
which  I  bad  passed  at  Moreland  villa  floated  up  and 
shut  me  in  a  strange  spell,  until  I  forgot  what  place 
we  were  in,  or  that  any  other  persona  surrounded 


THE    WEDDING-BONNET.  285 

When  the  cars  moved  rapidly  out  of  the  city,  increas- 
ing their  speed  as  they  got  beyond  the  precincts,  Leesy 
asked  to  have  the  window  open. 

The  air  was  cold  and  fresh  ;  her  feverish  lips  swal- 
lowed it  as  a  reviving  draught.  I  gazed  alternately  at 
her  and  the  landscape,  already  flushed  with  the  red  of 
early  sunset.  It  was  a  December  day,  chill  but  bright ; 
the  ground  was  frozen,  and  the  river  sparkled  with  the 
keen  blueness  of  splintered  steel.  The  red  banner  of 
twilight  hung  over  the  Palisades.  I  lived  really  three 
years  in  that  short  ride — the  three  years  just  past — and 
when  we  reached  our  destination,  I  walked  like  one  in 
a  dream.  It  was  quite  evening  when  we  got  out  at 
Blankville,  though  the  moon  was  shining.  A  fussy  lit- 
tle woman  passed  out  before  us,  lugging  a  large  band- 
box ;  she  handed  it  to  the  town  express,  telling  the 
driver  to  be  very  careful  of  it,  and  take  it  round  at 
once  to  Esquire  Argyll's. 

"  I  suppose  it  contains  the  wedding-bonnet,"  he  said, 
with  a  laugh. 

"  That  it  does,  and  the  dress,  too,  all  of  my  own  se- 
lection," said  the  little  woman,  with  an  air  of  impor- 
tance. "  Just  you  carry  it  in  your  hand,  sir,  and  don't 
you  allow  nothing  to  come  near  it." 

When  I  heard  these  words,  a  hot  flush  came  to  my 
face.  That  Mary  Argyll  was  already  married,  or  ex- 
pected to  be  very  soon,  I  knew ;  but  I  could  not  hear 
this  reference  to  the  wedding,  nor  see  this  article  of 
preparation,  without  keen  pain.  Yet  what  business 
was  it  of  mine  ? 

Mr.  Burton  had  also  heard  the  brief  colloquy,  and  I 
noticed  his  lips  pressed  together  with  a  fierce  expres- 
sion as  we  passed  under  the  lamp  which  lighted  the 
crossing.  He  took  us  into  the  hotel  by  the  depot.  Oh, 
how  suffocating,  how  close,  became  memory !  Into 
this  building  poor  Henry  had  been  carried  on  that 


286  THE    DEAD    LETTER. 

wretched  morning.  It  seemed  to  be  but  yesterday.  I 
think  Leesy  was  recalling  it  all,  for  when  a  cup  of  tea 
was  brought  in  for  her,  at  Mr.  Burton's  bidding,  sho 
turned  from  it  with  loathing. 

"  Leesy,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  firmly,  and  speak- 
ing in  a  tone  of  high  command,  "  I  don't  want  you  to 
fail  me  now.  The  trial  will  soon  be  over.  Brace  your- 
self for  it  with  all  the  strength  you  have.  Now,  I  am 
going  out  a  few  moments — perhaps  for  hnrlf  an  hour. 
AYlien  I  return,  you  will  both  IK-  ready  t<>  L:<>  \\ith  me 
to  Mr.  Argyll's  house." 

I  was  nearly  as  much  shaken  by  this  prospect  as  the 
frail  woman  who  sat  tmnlilini;  in  a  corner  of  tin- 
To  go  into  that  house  from  which  I  hail  ill-parted  with 
such  ignominy — to  sec  Eleanor  face  to  fare—  to  meet 
them  all  who  ha<l  onee  l>een  my  friends —to  irrcet  them 
as  strangers,  for  sueh  they  wen — they  must  be.  to  me! 
— to  appear  in  their  mi<l>t  under  sii'-h  strange  cireum- 
stances — to  hear,  I  knew  not  what — to  learn  that  mys- 
tery— my  heart  grew  as  if  walled  in  with  ice ;  it  could 
not  half  beat,  and  felt  cold  in  my  l>n-ast. 

Both  Leesy  and  myself  started  when  Mr.  Hurton 
again  appeared  in  the  room. 

"All    is   riu'lit    thus   far,"  he  said,  in   a  clear,  < 
voice,  which,  nevertheless,  had  the  high  ring  of  excite- 
ment.    "Come,  now,  let  us  not  waste  the  golden  mo- 
ments, for  now  the  hour  is  ripe." 

We  had  each  of  us  to  give  an  arm  to  Miss  Sullivan, 
who  could  scarcely  put  one  foot  before  the  other.  We 
walked  slowly  along  over  th-it  path  \\hidi  1  never  had 
trodden  sine*  the  night  of  the  murder  without  a 
shudder.  A  low  moan  came  fro  n  lips  as  we 

pa08ed    the    SpOt    Wilde    the     l»«i  Mon-land 

had   lieell  di-co \eivd.       JVcsclilh    \\ecanie    to    tin 

of  the  Argyll  place,  and  here  Mr.  Hnrt«.n  a-_rain  left  us. 
"Follow  me,"  he  said,  "  in  five  minutes.  Come  to  ihi- 


THE    MEETING.  287 

library-door,  and  knock ;  and,  Richard,  I  particularly 
desire  you  to  take  a  seat  by  the  bay-window." 

He  went  up  the  walk  and  entered  the  house,  with- 
out seeming  to  ring  the  hall  door-bell,  leaving  the  door 
open  as  he  passed  in.  I  looked  at  my  watch  by  the 
moonlight,  forcing  myself  to  count  the  minutes,  by 
way  of  steadying  my  head,  which  was  all  in  a  whirl. 
When  the  time  expired,  I  helped  Leesy  forward  into 
the  dim  hall,  on  to  the  libraryndoor,  where  I  knocked, 
according  to  directions,  and  was  admitted  by  Mr.  Ar- 
gyll himself. 

There  was  a  bright  light  shining  from  the  chandelier, 
fully  illuminating  the  room.  In  the  midst  of  a  flood 
of  recollections,  I  stepped  within  ;  but  my  brain,  which 
had  been  hot  and  dizzy  before,  grew  suddenly  calm  and 
cool.  When  Mr.  Argyll  saw  that  it  was  me,  he  slightly 
recoiled,  and  gave  me  no  greeting  whatever.  A  glance 
assured  me  that  every  member  of  the  family  was  prev- 
ent. Eleanor  sat  in  an  arm-chair  near  the  center-table ; 
Mary  and  James  occupied  the  same  sofa.  Eleanor 
looked  at  me  with  a  kind  of  white  amazement ;  James 
nodded  as  my  eye  met  his,  his  face  expressing  surprise 
and  displeasure.  Mary  rose,  hesitated,  and  finally  came 
forward,  saying, 

"  How  do  you  do,  Richard  ?" 

I  bowed  to  her,  but  did  not  take  her  outstretched 
hand,  and  she  rettmied  to  her  place  near  James.  In 
the  mean  time,  Mr.  Burton  himself  placed  Leesy  Sul- 
livan in  an  easy-chair.  I  walked  forward  and  took  a 
seat  near  the  window.  I  had  time  to  observe  the  ap- 
pearance of  my  whilom  friends,  and  was  calm  enough 
to  do  it.  Mr.  Argyll  had  grown  old  much  faster  than 
the  time  warranted ;  his  form  was  somewhat  bent,  and 
his  whole  appearance  feeble  ;  I  grieved,  as  I  noticed 
this,  as  though  he  was  my  own  father,  for  I  once  had 
loved  him  -as  much.  Mary  looked  the  same  as  when  I 
13 


288  THE   DEAD  LETTER. 

had  seen  her,  three  months  since,  in  tint  surreptitious 
visit  to  the  oak,  blooming  and  beautiful,  the  ima^e  of 
\vli.-it  Eleanor  once  was.  Klcanor,  doubtless,  was 
whiter  than  her  wont,  for  my  appearance  had  startled 
her;  but  there  was  the  same  rapt,  far-away,  spiritual 
look  upon  her  features  which  they  had  worn  since  that 
day  when  she  had  wedded  herself  t«>  the  spirit  of  her  lover. 

Mr.  IJurton  inrneil  the  key  in  tin-  luck  ..('  the  door 
which  opened  into  the  hall  ;  then  crossed  over  and 
closed  the  parlor-door,  and  sat  down  by  it,  say  in  t:  as 
he  did  so, 

"Mr.  Argyll,  I  told  y..n  a  few  moments  a  1:0.  thai  I 
had  news  of  importance  to  communicate,  and  I  take 
the  liberty  of  closing  these  doors,  for  it  would  lie  \er\ 
unpleasant  for  us  to  he  intruded  upon,  or  for  any  of 
the  servants  to  hear  any  tiling  of  what  I  have  to  say. 
You  will  perhaps  <_ruess  the  nature1  of  mv  communica- 

•n,  from  my  having  brought  with  me  these  two  per- 
sons. I  would  not  agitate  any  of  you  !>v  the  introduc- 
tion of  the  painful  subject,  if  I  did  not  believe  that 
you  would  rather  know  the  truth,  even  if  it  is  sad  io 
re\  i\e  the  past.  Hut  I  must  be^  of  you  to  lie  calm, 
r.ud  to  li»tcii  quietly  to  what  I  have  to  wy." 

"I  will  be  \er\  calm;  do  not  be  afraid,"  murmured 
Eleanor,  growing  yet  feebler,  for  it  was  to  her  he  now 
particularly  addressed  the  injunction. 

I  was  so  occupied  with  her  that  I  did  not  notice  the 
elVect  upon  the  Other*. 

"  Mr.  Argyll,"  continued  the  detective,  "  1  have  DtVtf 
yet  abandoned  a  case  of  this  kind  until  I  have  unrav- 
eled its  mystery  to  the  last  thread.  Nearly  1\\o  years 
have  passed  since  you  supposed  that  I  ceased  1"  e\ert 
myself  to  discover  the  murderer  of  Henry  .Moreland. 
But  I  have  never,  for  a  day,  alh>\\ , -d  the  ease  to  lie 
idle  in  my  mind.  Whenever  I  have  had  leisure.  I 
have  partially  followed  every  clue  which  wan  put  in 


"  YOU   WERE   NOT   FAB   WRONG."  289 

• 

my  hands  at  the  time  when  we  first  had  the  matter 
under  discussion.  It  was  not  alone  the  sad  circum- 
stances of  the  tragedy  which  gave  it  unusual  interest 
(to  me.  I  became  warmly  attached  to  your  family,  and 
'as,  from  the  first — yes,  from  the  very  first  hour  when  I 
heard  of  the  murder — I  believed  I  had  discovered 
the  perpetrator,  I  could  not  allow  the  matter  to  sink 
into  silence.  You  remember,  of  course,  our  last  inter- 
view. Some  ideas  were  there  presented  which  I  then 
opposed.  You  know  how  the  discussion  of  all  the 
facts  then  known  ended.  Your  suspicions  fell  Tipon 
one  who  had  been  an  honored  and  favored  member  of 
your  family — you  feared,  although  you  were  not  cer- 
tain, that  Richard  Redfield  committed  the  deed.  You 
gave  me  all  the  reasons  you  had  for  your  opinions — 
good  reasons,  too,  some  of  them  were ;  but  I  then 
combated  the  idea.  However,  I  was  more  or  less 
affected  by  what  you  said,  and  I  told  you,  before  part- 
ing, that,  if  you  had  such  feelings  toward  the  young 
man,  you  ought  not  to  allow  him  to  be,  any  longer,  a 
member  of  your  family.  I  believe  he  came  to  under- 
stand the  light  in  which  you  regarded  him,  and  shortly 
after  left  the  place,  and  since  has  been  most  of  the 
time,  in  Washington,  employed  there  as  a  clerk  in  the 
dead-letter  office.  I  believe  now,  Mr.  Argyll,  that  you 
were  not  far  wrong  in  your  conjectures.  I  have  dis- 
covered the  murderer  of  Henry  Moreland,  and  can 
give  you  positive  proof  of  it  /" 

This  assertion,  deliberately  tittered,  caused  the  sen- 
sation which  might  be  expected.  Eleanor,  with  all  her 
long  habit  of  self-control,  gave  a  slight  shriek,  and 
began  to  tremble  like  a  leaf.  Exclamations  came  from 
the  lips  of  all— I  believe  James  uttered  an  oath,  but  I 
am  not  certain  ;  for  I,  perhaps  more  than  any  other  in 
the  room,  was  at  that  moment  confounded.  As  the 
idea  rushed  over  me  that  Mr.  Burton  had  been  acting 


290  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

a  part  toward  me,  and  had  taken  these  precautions  to 

get  me  utterly  in  his  power,  where  I  could  not  defend 
m\  -elf,  1  started  ti)  my  feet. 

"Sit  still,  .Mr.  He. liield."  said  the  deteethe  to  me, 
sternly.  "There  is  no  avenue  of  escape  for  the  guilty," 
and  rising,  he  took  the  key  of  the  door  and  put  it  in 
his  pocket,  giving  me  a  look  difficult  to  understand. 

I  did  sit  d<>\vn  again,  not  so  much  because  he  told 
inc.  as  that  I  was  powerless  from  ania/.enient  ;  as  1  did 
so,  I  met  the  eyes  of  James,  which  laughed  silently 
with  a  triumph  so  hateful  that,  at  the  moment,  they 
seemed  to  me  the  eyes  of  a  devil.  All  the  feelings 
which,  at  various  times,  had  heen  called  up  by  this 
terrible  affair,  were  nothing  to  those  which  overwhelmed 
me  during  the  tew  moments  which  followed.  .My 
thought  tracked  many  avenues  with  lightning  rapidity; 
but  I  could  find  no  light  at  the  end  of  any  of  them. 
I  began  to  believe  that  (u-orge  Thorlcy.  in  his  confes- 
sion, had  criminated  >/u  —  who  knew  him  not  —  who 
had  spoken  with  him— and  that  thin  was  the  rea- 
son why  Mr.  Fiurtou  had  withheld  that  document  from 
me — falsely  professing  friendship,  while  leading  me 
into  the  pit!  If  so,  what  secret  enemy  had  1  \\lio 
could  instruct  him  to  lay  the  murder  at  my  door?  If 
he  had  accused  me,  I  was  well  aware  that  maiiv  little 
circumstances  might  be  turned  so  as  to  strengthen  the 
.lion. 

I  sat  there  dumb.  But  there  is  always  strength  in 
innocence— even  u  hen  betrayed  by  its  friends!  >  I 
remained  <|iiiet  and  listened. 

"  When  a  crime  like  this  is  n.mmitted,"  proceeded 
the  detective,  <|iiite  calm  in  the  mid-t  of  our  excite- 
ment, "  we  usually  look  for  the  motive.  Next  to  ava- 
rice come  the  passions  of  revenge  and  jealousy  in  fre- 
quency. We  know  that  money  had  nothing  to  do  with 
Henry  Morcland's  death— revenge  and  jeah.u-y  had. 


"  A    MEMBER    OF    YOUR   FAMILY."  291 

There  lived  in  Blankville  three  or  four  years  ago,  a 
yonng  fellow,  a  druggist,  by  the  name  of  George 
Thorley ;  you  remember  him,  Mr.  Argyll  ?" 

Mr.  Argyll  nodded  his  head. 

"  He  was  an  adventurer,  self-instructed  in  medicine, 
without  principle.  Shortly  after  setting  up  in  your 
village,  he  fell  in  love  with  this  woman  here — Miss 
Sullivan.  She  rejected  him  ;  both  because  she  had  a 
dim  perception  of  his  true  character,  and  because  she 
was  interested  in  another.  She  allows  me  to  say,  here, 
what  she  once  before  confessed  to  us,  that  she  loved 
Henry  Moreland — loved  him  purely  and  unselfishly, 
Avith  no  wish  but  for  his  happiness,  and  no  hope  of 
ever  being  any  thing  more  to  him  than  his  mother's 
seAving-girl,  to  whom  he  extended  some  acts  of  kind- 
ness. But  George  Thorley,  with  the  sharpness  of  jeal- 
ousy, discovered  her  passion,  which  she  supposed  was 
hidden  from  mortal  eyes,  and  conceived  the  brutal  hate 
of  a  low  nature  against  the  young  gentleman,  who  was 
ignorant  alike  of  him  and  his  sentiments.  So  far,  no 
harm  was  done,  and  evil  might  never  have  come  of  it, 
for  Henry  Moreland  moved  in  a  sphere  different  from 
his,  and  they  might  never  have  come  in  contact.  But 
another  bosom  was  also  possessed  of  the  fiend  of  jeal- 
ousy. An  inmate  of  your  family  had  learned  to  love 
your  daughter  Eleanor — not  only  to  love  her,  but  to 
look  forward  to  the  fortune  and  position  which  would 
be  conferred  by  a  marriage  with  her  as  something  ex- 
tremely desirable.  He  would  not  reconcile  himself  to 
the  engagement  which  was  formed  between  Miss  Ar- 
gyll and  Mr.  Moreland.  He  cherished  bad  thoughts, 
which  grew  more  bitter  as  their  happiness  became  more 
apparent.  Once,  he  was  standing  at  the  gate  of  this 
lawn,  when  the  young  couple  passed  him,  going  out  for 
a  walk  together.  He  looked  after  them  with  a  dark 
look,  speaking  aloud,  unconsciously,  the  thought  of  his 


292  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

heart ;  he  said,  « I  hate  him  !  I  wish  he  were  dead? 
Instantly,  to  his  surprise  and  dismay,  a  voice  replied, 
4  T*m  with  you  there — you  don't  wish  it  so  much  as  I 
doT  The  speaker  was  Thorley,  who,  passing,  had 
been  arrested  by  the  young  couple  going  out  of  the 
gate,  and  who  had  remained,  also,  gazing  after  thorn. 
It  was  an  unfortunate  coincidence.  The  first  speaker 
looked  at  the  second  with  anger  and  chagrin ;  but  he 
had  betrayed  himself,  and  the  other  kne\V  it.  lie 
laughed  impudently,  as  he  sauntered  on ;  but,  jnc-»( miy, 
he  returned  and  whispered,  *  I  wouldn't  object  to  put- 
ting him  out  of  the  way,  if  I  was  well  paid  for  it.' 
*  What  do  you  mean  V  inquired  the  other,  angrily,  and 
the  response  was,  '  Just  what  I  say.  I  hate  him  aa 
bad  as  you  do  ;  you've  got  money,  or  can  yet  tV,  and  I 
can't.  Pay  me  well  for  the  job,  and  I'll  put  him  out 
of  your  way  so  securely  that  he  won't  ink-Hi-iv  with 
your  plans  any  more.'  The  young  gentleman  aili-rk-d 
to  be,  and  perhaps  was,  indignant.  The  fellow  \\  out 
off,  smirking ;  but  his  words  left,  as  he  thought  they 
would,  their  poison  behind.  In  less  than  a  mouth  from 
that  time,  the  person  had  sought  Thorley  out,  in  his 
lurking-place  in  the  city — for  he  had,  you  recolhrt, 
been  driven  from  Blankvillc  by  the  voice  of  public 
opinion — and  had  conferred  with  him  upon  the  possi- 
bility of  young  Moreland  being  put  out  of  the  way, 
without  risk  of  discovery  of  those  who  had  a  hand  in  it. 
Thorley  agreed  to  manage  every  thing  without  ri.-k  t.. 
any  one.  He  wanted  three  thousand  dollars,  but  his 
accomplice,  who  was  aware  that  you  were  about  to 
draw  two  thousand  from  a  bank  in  New  York,  prom- 
ised him  that  sum,  with  which  he  agreed  to  be  satis- 
fied. It  was  expected  and  planned  that  the  murder 
should  be  committed  in  the  city  ;  but,  as  the  time  drew 
nigh  for  accomplishing  it,  opportunity  did  nut  pr« 
Finally,  as  the  steamer  upon  which  Thorley  wished  to 


HOW   IT   CAME   THERE.  293 

flee  to  California  was  about  to  sail,  and  no  better  thing 
offered,  he  concluded  to  follow  Mr.  Moreland  out  in 
the  evening  train,  and  stab  him,  under  cover  of  the 
rain  and  darkness,  someAvhere  between  the  depot  and 
the  house.  This  he  did  ;  then,  afraid  to  take  the  cars, 
for  fear  of  being  suspected,  he  went  down  along  the 
docks,  took  possession  of  a  small  boat  which  lay  moored 
by  a  chain,  broke  the  chain,  and  rowed  down  the 
river,  completely  protected  by  the  storm  from  human 
observation.  The  next  morning  found  him  in  New- 
York,  dress,  complexion  and  hair  changed,  with  .noth- 
ing about  him  to  excite  the  least  suspicion  that  he  was 
connected  with  the  tragedy  that  was  just  becoming 
known.  However,  he  wrote  a  letter,  directed  to  John 
Owen,  Peekskill,  in  which  he  stated  in  obscure  terms, 
that  the  instrument  with  which  the  murder  was  com- 
mitted would  be  found  secreted  in  a  certain  oak  tree  on 
these  premises,  and  that  it  had  better  be  taken  care  of. 
I  have  the  letter  and  the  broken  instrument.  The  way 
it  came  to  be  concealed  in  the  tree  was  this :  After 
the  murder,  being  so  well  sheltered  by  the  storm,  he 
was  bold  enough  to  approach  the  house,  in  hopes  of 
communicating  with  his  accomplice,  and  receiving  the 
money  directly  from  his  hands,  which  would  prevent 
the  latter  from  the  necessity  of  making  a  trip  to  Brook- 
lyn to  pay  it.  He  saw  nothing  of  him,  however  ;  per- 
ceiving that  he  could  look  into  the  parlor  through  the 
open  upper  half  of  the  shutter  by  climbing  the  large 
oak  at  the  corner,  he  did  so  ;  and  was  looking  at  you 
all  for  some  minutes  on  that  evening.  Perceiving  by 
the  light  which  shone  from  the  window  that  the  instru- 
ment was  broken  at  the  point,  he  at  once  comprehended 
how  important  it  was  to  get  rid  of  it,  and  chancing  to 
discover  a  hollow  spot  in  the  limb  he  stood  on,  he 
worked  it  well  into  the  rotten  heart  of  the  wood.  He 
it  was  whom  Miss  Sullivan  detected  descending  from 


294  THE    DEAD    LETT1.!:. 

the  tree,  on  that  awful  night  when  she,  alas!  led  by  a 
hopeless,  though  a  pure  love.  pa»ing  the  hou-e  on  her 
way  to  her  aunt's,  could  not  deny  herself  a  stolen  look 
at  the  happiness  of  the  two  beings  so  soon,  she  thought, 
to  be  made  one.  She  never  expected  to  Me  them  again 
until  after  their  marriage,  and  a  wild,  foolish  impulse, 
if  I  must  call  it  so,  urged  her  into  the  garden,  to  look 
through  the  open  bay-window — a  folly  which  came 
near  having  leTHHM  COO86C|nences  for  her.  "\Vell.  (Jeorge 
Thorley  escaped,  and  fulfilled  the  programme  so  far  as 
to  sail  for  San  Francisco;  but  the  boat  stopping  at 
A  -apulco,  he  received  an  oiler  there,  from  a  Spanish 
gentleman,  of  the  posit 'n 
eMales.  It  was  just  the  cou 
that  of  Thorley  to  prosper  in 
osition,  wormed  himself  into 
iard,  married  his  daughter,  an 
heart's  content,  when  I  came 
disturbed  hi-  serenity.  Yes  !  .Mr.  Argyll,  I  Marled  for 
California  after  the  villain,  for  I  had  traces  of  him 
which  led  me  to  take  the  journey,  and  it  wa>  by  ;i 

^providential  accident  that  1  a-cerlained  he\\a>  near 
Acapulco,  where  I,  also,  landed,  sought  him  out.  and 
wrung  a  confession  from  him,  which  I  have  here  in 
writing.  He  has  told  the  story  plainly,  and  I  have 
other  evidence  to  confirm  it  which  a  court  of  law 
could  possibly  require.  I  could  hang  his  accomplice, 
without  doubt." 

At  the  fii-t  mention  of  the  name  of  George  Thorley 
I  chanced  to  be  looking  at  James,  over  who-e  counte- 
nance passed  an  indescribable  change  ;  he  moved  un- 
easily,  looked  at  the  closed  doors,  and  again  riveted 
his  gaze  on  Mr.  Burton,  who  did  not  look  at  him  at  all 
during  the  narrative,  but  kept  steadily  on.  to  the  end, 

•in  a  linn,  clear  tone,  low,  so  as  not  to  be  ..\,  i  l,(-;.rd 
outside,    but    assured    and    distinct.      Having    once 


"  I  DID   IT,    ELEANOR."  295 

observed  James,  I  could  no  longer  see  any  one  else.  I 
seemed  to  see  the  story  reflected  in  his  countenance, 
instead  of  hearing  it.  Flushes  of  heat  passed  over  it, 
succeeded  by  an  ashy  paleness,  which  deepened  into 
a  sickly  blue  hue,  curious  to  behold  ;  dark  passions 
swept  like  shadows  over  it ;  and  gradually,  as  the 
speaker  neared  the  climax  of  his  story,  I  felt  like  one 
who  gazes  into  an  open  window  of  the  bottomless  pit. 

"  Have  I  told  you  who  it  was  that  hired  George 
Thorley  to  murder  Henry  Moreland  ?"  asked  Mr.  Bur- 
ton, in  the  pause  which  followed. 

It  had  been  taken  for  granted  who  the  person  was, 
and  as  he  asked  the  question  the  eyes  of  all  turned  to 
me — of  all  except  James,  who  suddenly  sprung  with  a 
bound  against  the  door  opening  into  the  parlor,  which 
was  not  locked.  But  another  was  too  quick  for  him  ; 
the  powerful  hand  of  the  detective  was  on  his  shoulder, 
and  as  he  turned  the  attempted  fugitive  full  to  the 
light,  he  said,  in  words  which  fell  like  fire, 

"It  was  your  nephew — James  Argyll." 

For  a  moment  you  might  have  heard  a  leaf  drop 
on  the  carpet ;  no  one  spoke  or  stirred.  Then  Eleanor 
arose  from  her  chair,  and,  lifting  up  her  hand,  looked 
with  awful  eyes  at  the  cowering  murderer.  Her  look 
blasted  him.  He  had  been  writhing  under  J\Jr.  Bur- 
ton's grasp ;  but  now,  as  if  in  answer  to  her  gaze,  he 
said, 

"  Yes— I  did  it,  Eleanor,"  and  dropped  to  the  floor 
in  a  swoon. 
13* 


296  THE    DEAD   LETTEB. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

JOINING  THE   MISSING   LINKS. 

THE  scene  which  transpired  in  the  next  few  minutes 
was  harrowing.  The  revulsion  of  feeling,  the  shock, 
the  surprise  and  the  horror  were  almost  too  much  for 
human  nature  to  bear.  Groan  after  groan  burst  from 
Mr.  Argyll,  as  if  his  In-east  were  being  rent  in  twain. 
Mary  tottered  to  her  sister  and  threw  herself  at  her 
feet,  with  her  head  buried  in  her  lap  ;  if  she  had  not 
been  so  healthily  organi/.ed,  and  of  such  an  even  tem- 
perament, I  know  not  how  she  would  have  sunived 
this  frightful  cheek  to  her  hopes  and  affections.  It 
rd  as  if  Eleanor,  who  had  lived  only  to  sutler  for 
so  many  weary  months,  had  now  more  self-po--e— ion 
than  any  of  the  others;  her  thin,  white  hand  fell  softly 
on  her  Bister's  curls  with  a  pitying  touch  ;  and  after  a 
time,  she  whispered  to  her  some  words.  My  o\\n  stir- 
pi-i-e  \\-:i-  nearly  as  much  as  anyone's;  for,  although 
many  times  I  had  jMt  thai  James  was  the  guilty  one, 
I  had  always  tried  to  drive  away  the  impres>iou,  and 
had  finally  almost  succeeded. 

In  the  mean  time  no  one  went  to  the  unhappy  man, 
who  found  a  temporary  relief  from  shame  and  despair 
in  insensibility.  All  recoiled  from  him,  as  he  lay  upon 
the  floor.  Finally,  Mr.  Burton  forced  himself  to  raise 
him  ;  consciousness  was  returning,  and  he  placed  him 
on  the  sofa,  and  gave  him  a  handkerchief  wet  with 

•lie. 

Presently  Mary  arose  from  her  kneeling  position, 
and  looked  around  the  room  until  her  glance  tell  on  me, 
when  the  came  toward  me,  and  grasped  both  my  hands, 
saying, 


THE  MURDERER'S  FATE.  29*7 

"  Richard,  I  never  accused  you — I  always  felt  that 
you  were  innocent,  and  always  said  so.  You  must  for- 
give the  others  for  my  sake.  My  father  and  sister  will 
bear  me  witness  that  I  always  defended  you  from  the 
accusations  of  one  who,  it  is  now  proved,  soxight  with 
double,  with  inconceivable  baseness,  to  divert  suspicion 
from  himself  to  another" — her  voice  trembled  with 
scorn.  "  I  never  wanted  ito  marry  him,"  she  added, 
bursting  into  tears,  "  but  they  overpersuaded  me." 

"  Quiet  yourself,  sistei',"  said  Eleanor,  gently,  arising 
and  approaching  us.  "  We  have  all  wronged  you, 
Richard — I  fear  beyond  forgiveness.  Alas !  we  can 
now  see  what  a  noble  enemy  you  have  been !" 

In  that  moment  I  felt  repaid  for  all  I  had  suffered, 
and  I  said  with  joy, 

"  Never  an  enemy,  Miss  Argyll ;  and  I  forgive  you, 
wholly." 

Then  there  was  another  stir ;  James  had  risen  to  slip 
away  from  the  company,  now  so  distasteful  to  him; 
but  Mr.  Burton  again  stood  between  him  and  egress  ; 
as  he  did  so,  he  said, 

"  Mr.  Argyll,  it  is  for  you  to  decide  the  fate  of  this 
miserable  man.  I  have  kept  all  my  proceedings  a 
secret  from  the  public  ;  I  even  allowed  George  Thorley 
to  remain  in  Mexico,  for  I  thought  your  family  had  al- 
ready suffered  enough,  without  loading  it  down  with 
the  infamy  of  your  nephew.  If  you  say  that  he  shall 
go  unpunished  by  the  law,  I  shall  abide  by  your  wish  ; 
this  matter  shall  be  kept  by  the  few  who  now  know  it. 
For  your  sakes,  not  for  his,  I  would  spare  him  the 
death  which  he  deserves  ;  but  he  must  leave  the  country 
at  once  and  for  ever." 

"  Let  him  go,"  said  the  uncle,  his  back  turned  upou 
the  murderer,  toward  whom  he  would  not  look.  "  Go, 
instantly  and  for  ever.  And  remember,  James  Argyll, 
if  I  ever  see  your  face  again,  if  I  ever  hear  of  your 


298  THE   DEAD   LETTER. 

being  anywhere  in  the  United  States  I  shall  at  once 
you  to  be  arre>ted." 

"  Ami  I.  the  sain.-."  a. M<-.1  Mr.  Burton.  "  God  knows, 
if  it  were  not  for  these  younjj  ladies,  whose  feeling-  are 
sacred  to  me,  I  would  not  let  you  off  so  easily." 

lie  opened  the  door,  ami  .James  Argyll  >lnnk  «'iit  into 
the  nijjht,  and  away,  none  knew  \\hither,  bran-led,  ex- 
patriated, and  alone — away,  without  one  look  at  the 
fair,  beautiful  irirl  who  was  so  soon  to  have  been  his 
bride — away,  from  the  home  he  had  jieriled  his  soul  to 
secure. 

When  he  had  gone,  we  all  breathed  more  freely.  Mr. 
Burton  h:id  yet  mueh  to  say,  for  he  wished  to  el..<e  this 
horrible  business  for  ever.  He  took  the  surgical  in- 
strument which  we  had  found  in  the  tree,  and  fitted  it 
to  the  piece  which  had  been  extracted  from  the  body  of 
the  murdered  man,  and  showed  the  family  the  initials 
of  George  Thorley  upon  it.  He  then  produce.!  tin- 
written  confession  of  Thorley.  which  we  all  read  for 
|  i'lit  as  it  contained  only,  in  a  plain  statement, 
the  facts  already  Lriven.  I  will  not  repeat  them  here.  He- 
then  proceeded  \\ith  the  history  of  th«  n  i:, 
which.  al<".  he  had  \\ilh  him,  and  which  proved  to  be 
in  the  same  handwriting  as  the  confe—ion.  In  speaking 
of  the  i-unous  manner  in  which  this  document  hail  been 
lost,  to  be  recovered  in  the  ri^lit  time  by  the  ri-ht  per- 
son, he  seemed  to  consider  it  almost  awfully  provi. Ini- 
tial. 

1-Yom  tin-  he  \sent  on  \\ith  a  minute  history  of  all 
the  Steps  taken  by  both  of  us,  our  journey  over  the 
OOOan,  the  wonderful  sueeess  which  \saited  upon  pa- 
tience, perseverance  and  energy,  securing  the  final 
triumph  of  justice;  and.  to  conclude  \\ilh,  he  said. 

••  I  OW6,  -till,  a  •_' 1  many  explanation-  both  to  you, 

Mr.  Argyll,  and  t»  Mr.  Ke'ltield.      I  caii  not  lay  !•• 
you  the  thousand  subtle  threads  by  which  I  trace  the 


• 


Page  197. 


'1  NEVER   ACCUSED   YOU." 


A   PECULIAR   POWER.  299 

course  of  a  pursuit  like  this,  and  which  makes  me  suc- 
cessful as  a  detective ;  but  I  can  account  for  some  things 
which  at  times  have  puzzled  both  of  you.  In  the  first 
place  there  is  about  me  a  power  not  possessed  by  all — 
call  it  instinct,  magnetism,  clairvoyancy,  or  remarkable 
nervous  and  mental  perception.  Whatever  it  is,  it  en- 
ables me,  often,  to  feel  the  presence  of  criminals,  as  well 
as  of  very  good  persons,  poets,  artists,  or  marked  tem- 
peraments of  any  kind.  The  day  on  which  this  case 
was  placed  before  me,  it  was  brought  by  two  young 
men,  your  nephew  and  this  person  now  present.  I  had 
not  been  ten  minutes  with  them  when  I  began  to  pei'- 
ceive  that  the  murderer  was  in  the  room  with  me  /  and 
before  they  had  left  me,  I  had  decided  which  was  the 
guilty  man.  But  it  would  have  been  unpardonable 
rashness  to  denounce  him  without  proof;  by  such  a 
course  I  would  throw  him  on  the  defensive,  defeat  the 
ends  of  justice,  and  overwhelm  myself  with  denuncia- 
tion. I  waited  arid  watched — I  put  him  under  surveil- 
lance. That  night  upon  which  he  crossed  the  Brooklyn 
ferry  to  pay  the  money  to  the  hired  assassin,  I  was 
upon  his  track ;  I  heard  the  angry  dismay  with  which 
he  accused  Richard  of  following  him,  when  the  other 
met  him  upon  this  side.  It  was  not  very  long  after  I 
began  to  investigate  the  case  before  he  cautiously  ap- 
proached me,  as  he  did  you,  with  hints  of  the  might- 
be-guilty  party ;  he  made  me  see  how  much  to  the 
interest  of  his  friend  Richard  it  would  be  if  rivals  were 
out  of  the  way,  and  how  desperately  that  person  loved 
Miss  Argyll.  (Forgive  me,  friends,  for  using  plain  lan- 
guage— the  whole  truth  must  be  told.)  But  I  need  not 
dwell  on  his  method,  for  you  must  be  familiar  with  it. 
I  confess  that  he  used  consummate  tact ;  if  I  had  not 
read  him  from  the  first,  I,  too,  might  have  been  misled. 
He  was  not  over-eager  in  the  search  for  suspected  per- 
sons, as  the  guilty  almost  always  are.  He  did  not  sus- 


800  THE    T>KAD    LETTER. 

pect  Miss  Sullivan,  as  Kichard  ili<l.  I  favored  the 
pursuit  of  Miss  Sullivan  for  1\v..  reasons  ;  tin-  first  was 
to  conceal  my  real  suspicions  ;  tin-  next  was,  after  find- 
ing her  handkerchief  in  the  garden,  after  the  flight,  ami 
all  those  really  strong  grounds  for  inppocing  IHT  con- 
nected  with  the  murder,  I  began  to  think  that  sh. 
connected  with  it,  through  some  interest  in  James  Ar- 
gyll. I  did  not  know  but  that  she  might  have  been 
attached  to  him — that  the  child  she  cared  for  might  be 
his — you  see  1  was  totally  in  the  dark  as  to  all  the  de- 
tails. I  only  took  it  for  granted  that  James  was  guilty, 
and  had  to  gather  my  proofs  afterward.  It  was  not 
until  atler  my  interview  with  I.cesy,  at  M.«reland  villa, 
that  I  became  convinced  she  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
murder,  and  thut  all  her  strange  proceedings  were  the 
result  of  the  grief  sin-  fi-lt  at  the  tragic  .leath  of  one 
whom  she  secretly  loved.  When  I  had  an  inteniew 
with  you  on  that  same  afternoon,  I  saw  that  .James  had 
poisoned  your  mind  with  suspicions  of  Mr  ]{ ed field  ; 
for  the  same  re.i-.tii  \\hi.-h  had  kept  me  silent  so  long 
— that  is,  that  I  should  eventually  undeceive  you  I  did 
not  defend  him,  as  1  otherwise  should.  Apparently.  I 
allowed  the  ease  to  drop.  It  was  only  that  I  might 
follow  it  undisturbed.  I  had  already  li\(-d  upon  Cali- 
fornia as  the  retreat  of  the  accomplice,  and  was  about 

;!•(  oil'  in    ^eareh  of  him  when    Kichard    app< 
upon  the  scene  with  the  dead-letter  jM  his  hand. 

44  From  that  Jiour  I  felt  sure  of  perfect  success.    My 
only  anxiety  was  that  the  marriage  should  not  be  con- 
summated which  would  seal  my  month  ;  for,  if  ' 
had  been  married  on  my  return,  I  should  have  consid- 
ered it  too  late  to  reveal  the  truth.     This  made  me 
n,je:i«!y — not  only  for  her  sake,  but  because  then  1  could 
not  clear  .Mr.  lledfield's  character  to  those  friends  who 
had  cruelly  wronged  him.     I  kept  my  suspicions  from 
him,  although  he  was  the  partner  of  my  investigations, 


GENTLE   PITT.  301 

for  I  was  afraid  that  his  impetuosity  might  cause  him 
to  do  something  indiscreet,  and  I  did  not  want  the 
guilty  one  alarmed  until  the  net  was  spread  for  his  feet. 
To-night,  when  I  came  here,  I  still  further  carried  on 
my  plan  of  allowing  you  to  remain  undecided  until  the 
last  moment,  for  I  counted  on  the  sudden,  overwhelm- 
ing accusation  having  the  effect  to  make  the  murderer 
confess — which  it  did.  I  wished  Miss  Sullivan  to  be 
present,  not  only  to  corroborate  any  points  of  my  testi- 
mony in  which  she  might  be  concerned,  but  that  repa- 
ration might  also  be  done  her,  for  we  have  troubled 
and  frightened  her  a  great  deal,  poor  thing,  when  her 
only  fault  has  been  too  keen  a  perception  of  the  nobil- 
ity of  that  departed  martyr,  whose  memory  his  friends 
cherish  so  sacredly.  She  has  but  a  brief  space  to  dwell 
on  earth,  and  I  thought  it  would  comfort  her  to  know- 
that  no  one  blames  her  for  the  pure  devotion  which  has 
lighted  her  soul  and  consumed  it  like  oil  which  bums 
away  in  perfume." 

Mr.  Burton  never  meant  to  be  poetical,  but  his  per- 
ceptions were  of  that  refined  kind  that  he  could  not 
withhold  from  poor  Leesy  this  little  tribute  to  her  noble 
folly.  His  words  touched  Eleanor ;  she  was  too  high- 
minded  to  despise  the  fruitless  offering  of  another  and 
a  humbler  woman  at  the  shrine  before  which  she  was 
privileged  to  minister  ;  I  believe  in  that  hour  she  felt  a 
sister's  interest  in  poor,  lowly,  but  love-exalted  Leesy 
Sullivan.  She  crossed  over,  took  the  wasted  hand  in 
her  own,  and  pressed  it  tenderly.  We  all  now  perceived 
how  much  this  dreadful  evening  had  fatigued  the  invalid. 

"  She  must  go  to  bed  at  once,"  said  Eleanor  ;  "  I  will 
call  Nora,  and  have  her  placed  in  the  room  which  opens 
out  of  ours,  Mary." 

The  young  ladies  retired  to  give  their  gentle  atten- 
tion to  the  sick  girl ;  and  both,  before  they  went  out, 
pressed  my  hand  as  they  said  good-night. 


302  THE   DEAD  LETTER. 

We  three  men  remained  lonir,  talking  over  each  par- 
ticular of  our  Strange  story,  1'or  we  could  not  feel  like 
sleeping.  And  before  we  parted  lor  the  night.  Mr.  Ar- 
gyll had  humbled  himself  to  confess  that  he  was  It -1  to 
condemn  me  without  snflicieiit  d 

;'  I  loved  you  a-  a  -on.  1  lichard."  lie  said,  in  :x  broken 
voice,  "better  than  I  e\erh>ve<l  .James,  for  I  wa- aware 
that  he  had  many  faults  of  heart  and  head.  And  when 
I  was  induced  to  believe  \ou  the  author  of  the  erime 
which  had  broken  all  our  hearts,  I  was  still  further 
downcast.  .My  health  has  failed,  as  you  M-e  ;  and  I 
was  urgent  upon  .Mary  to  marry  her  cousin,  for  I 
felt  as  if  she  would  soon  be  left  friendless,  and  I 
wanted  the  girls  to  Imve  a  protector.  I  might  better 
have  left  them  to  the  care  of  a  viper,"  he  added,  with 
a  shudder.  "Poor  Mary,  dear  girl !  she  was  ri-_rht  all 
the  time.  She  never  did  love  that  man — though,  of 
course,  she  had  no  idea  of  the  truth.  Thank  (lod,  it  H 
no  worse !" 

I  knew  he  was  thinking  of  the  marriage,  and  I,  too, 
murmured,"  Thank  Clod/' 

••  Mr.  Argyll,"  -aid  Mr.  l!nr!on.  laying  his  hand  on 
that  of  the  other,  "  this  terrible  atVair  is  now  brought  to 
a  close,  as  far  as  it  can  be.  Let  me  advice  you  to  brood 
over  it  as  little  as  possible.  Your  health  i*  already  af- 
fected. I  acknowledge  it  is  enough  to  -liak<-  one's  rea- 
son ;  but,  for  that,  I  would  bid  voti  to  drop  it  all  from 
your  mind — to  banish  the  thought  of  it — never  to  n-f.-r 
to  it  again.  You  can  yet  be  tolerably  happy.  A  fair 
future  lies  before  all  of  you.  <  \r.  |.t  dear  Mi-<  Kleanor. 
Adopt  liiehard  as  your  sou,  make  him  your  partner, 
as  you  first  intended.  I  will  '.rive  you  mv  warrant  for 
what  it  is  worth,  that  he  will  relieve  you  both  of  busi- 
ness and  household  cares — and  that  you  will  feel,  dur- 
ing your  declining  years,  aa  if  you,  indeed,  had  a  son 
to  comfort  you." 


RECONCILIATION.  303 

"But  I  do  not  believe  that  Richard  would  take  such 
a  place,  after  what  has  passed,"  said  Mr.  Argyll,  doubt- 
fully. 

I  hesitated  ;  for  a  moment  pride  rebelled ;  but  since 
all  is  forgiven,  ought  it  not  to  be  forgotten  ?  When  I 
spoke  it  was  Avith  heartiness. 

"  If  you  need  a  partner  in  your  office,  and  wish  me 
to  take  the  place,  I  will  do  so." 

"  Then  the  compact  is  signed,"  said  Mr.  Burton,  al- 
most gayly.  "  And  now  I  Avill  try  to  find  a  bed  at  the 
hotel." 

"  Of  course  you  will  not,"  said  our  host ;  "  this  house 
is  yours  as  much  as  mine,  Mr.  Burton,  always.  How 
much  I  thank  you  for  all  the  time,  money  and  thought 
you  have  lavished  in  our  behalf,  I  will  not  try  to  say 
to-night.  Our  gratitude  is  unspoken  because  it  is 
boundless." 

"  Don't  thank  me  for  following  out  the  instincts  of 
my  nature,"  said  the  detective,  affecting  carelessness ; 
and  with  that  we  shook  Mr.  Argyll's  hand,  and  retired 
to  the  rooms  assigned  us. 

In  the  morning  Miss  Sullivan  was  found  to  be  much 
worse  ;  the  journey  and  the  excitement  had  made  her 
very  ill,  so  that  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  return  to 
the  city  with  Mr.  Burton.  A  physician  was  sent  for 
who  said  that  she  could  not  live  over  two  or  three  days. 
She  heard  the  sentence  with  apparent  joy ;  only  she 
begged  Mr.  Burton  to  send  little  Nora  up  to  her,  on  the 
evening  train,  that  she  might  see  the  child  before  she 
died.  This  he  promised  to  do,  and  to  have  always  an 
interest  in  her  welfare.  She  was  much  affected  when 
he  bade  her  farewell,  for  he  had  gained  her  love  and 
confidence  by  his  manner  of  treating  her. 

The  child  came,  and  was  tenderly  received  by  the 
sisters.  They  were  unwearied  in  their  attentions  to  the 
sufferer,  whose  last  hours  were  soothed  by  their  earnest 


804  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

words  of  hope  and  comfort.  Leesy  died  with  a  smile 
on  her  face,  going  out  of  this  w.>rM,  which  had  been  -o 
cold  to  one  of  her  impassioned  nature,  with  joy.  When 
I  looked  at  the  wasted  corpse,  I  could  hardly  n-ali/.e 
that  the  fire  was  out  for  ever  which  had  so  long  burned 
in  those  wonderful  eyes — it  was  not  quenched,  it  had 
only  been  removed  to  a  purer  atmosphere.  She  \\  as 
buried,  very  quietly,  but  reverently,  on  a  beautiful  win- 
ter day.  Her  little  charge  was  much  petted  by  the 
young  ladies ;  and  as  a  lady  who  chanced  to  see  her, 
learning  that  she  was  an  orphan,  took  a  fancy  to  adopt 
her,  they,  with  Mr.  Burton's  consent,  resigned  her  to  a 
new  mother.  I  have  seen  little  Nora  lately ;  she  is  a 
pretty  child,  and  well  cared  for. 


THE    SHADOW   PASSING.  305 


CHAPTER    X. 

THE    NEW   LIFE. 

THE  winter  passed  away  quietly.  The  sudden  absence 
of  James  Argyll  caused  much  harmless  gossip  in  the 
village.  It  was  reported,  and  generally  believed,  that 
he  had  gone  abroad,  on  a  tour  to  Egypt,  because  Miss 
Argyll  had  jilted  him.  Fortunately,  the  arrangements 
for  the  wedding  were  known  to  but  few,  the  feelings  of 
the  family  having  inclined  toward  a  very  quiet  affair. 
The  little  woman  who  had  prepared  the  wedding-dress 
was  a  New  York  milliner,  who  probably  never  learned 
that  the  wedding  was  not  consummated. 

I  was  very  busy  in  the  office.  Mr.  Argyll's  health 
was  poor,  and  business  had  accumulated  which  took  the 
most  of  my  time.  He  wished  me  to  board  in  his  house, 
but  I  declined  doing  so  ;  though,  as  in  the  old,  happy 
times,  I  spent  nearly  all  my  evenings  there. 

Beyond  the  first  shock,  Mary  did  not  seem  to  suffer 
from  the  abrupt  termination  of  an  engagement  into 
which  she  had  entered  reluctantly.  I  even  believed 
that  she  felt  very  much  relieved  at  not  being  compelled 
to  marry  a  cousin  for  the  sake  of  securing  a  protector. 
Her  gay  laugh  soon  resumed  its  sweetness  ;  her  bright 
loveliness  bloomed  in  the  midst  of  winter,  making  roses 
and  sunshine  in  the  old  mansion.  Eleanor  seemed  to 
love  to  see  her  sister  happy,  gently  encouraging  her  ef- 
forts to  drive  away  the  shadow  which  lingered  about 
the  house.  Her  own  sad  life  must  not  be  permitted  to 
blight  the  joy  of  any  other.  I  have  said  that  my  feel- 
ings toward  her  had  changed  from  passionate  love, 
through  intense  sympathy,  into  affectionate  reverence. 
I  think,  now,  that  I  felt  toward  her  a  good  deal  as 


306  THE    DEAD   LETTEK. 

Mary  did — that  nothing  we  conld  do  for  her,  to  show 
our  silent  love  and  sympathy,  could  be  too  much— a 
tender  regard  for  her  wishes  and  habits — a  deep  respect 
for  the  manner  in  which  she  bore  her  loss.  We  did  not 
expect  that  she  would  ever  again  be  gay  or  hopeful ; 
so  we  did  not  annoy  her  with  trying  to  make  her  so. 

In  the  mean  time  a  great  change  wa-*  taking  plan- in 
my  own  nature,  of  which  I  was  but  faintly  aware.  I 
only  knew  that  I  enjoyed  my  hard  work — that  I  felt 
resolute  and  strong,  and  that  my  evening*  were  pleas- 
ant and  homelike.  Further,  I  did  not  question.  I 
wrote  to  my  mother  a  guarded  account  of  what  had  oc- 
curred ;  but  I  was  obliged  to  pay  her  a  living  \IMI  to 
explain  all  the  facts,  for  I  dared  not  trust  them  mi  paper. 
Thus  the  winter  glided  away  into  sunshine  and  spring 
again. 

It  was  the  first  day  which  had  really  seemed  like 
spring.  It  was  warm  and  showery;  there  was  a  smell 
of  violets  ami  new  gra-s  on  the  air.  1  had  my  otlice- 
window  open,  but  as  the  afternoon  wore  auay,  and  the 
sun  -hone  out  after  an  April  sprinkle,  I  could  not  abide 
the  dullness  of  that  court  of  law.  I  felt  those  "blind 
motions  of  the  spring,"  whieh  Tennvson  attriliir 
trees  and  plants.  And  verily,  I  was  in  svmpathy  \\ith 
nature.  1  felt  verdant — and  it'  the  reader  thinks  that 
to  my  discredit,  he  is  at  liberty  to  cherish  his  opinion. 
I  fell  young  and  happy — years  seemed  to  have  dropped 
auav  from  me,  like  a  mantle  of  ice,  leaving  the  tl- 
and  freshness  to  appear.  Not  knowing  whit  In -r  my 
fancy  would  lead  me,  I  walked  toward  the  mansion, 
and  again,  as  upon  that  autumn  afternoon  upon  which 
I  first  saw  Eleanor  after  her  calamity,  I  turned  my  step* 
to  the  arbor  which  crowned  the  slope  at  the  back  of  the 
lawn.  Thinking  of  Kieatior,  as  I  saw  her  then,  I  en- 
the  place  with  a  light  step,  and  found  Mary  -i: 
ting,  looking  off  on  the  river  with  a  dreamy  face.  MM- 


MATED.  307 

blushed  when  she  perceived  who  had  intruded  upon  her 
reverie  ;  I  saw  the  warm  color  sweep,  wave  after  wave, 
over  the  lovely  cheek  and  brow,  and  I  knew  instantly 
the  secret  it  betrayed.  I  remembered  the  arms  which 
bad  once  fallen  about  my  neck,  the  tears  which  had 
rained  upon  my  cheek  from  the  eyes  of  a  young  girl, 
the  eager  voice  which  had  said,  "  jTlove  you  Richard ! 
/  Avill  believe  nothing  against  you !" 

Oh,  how  sweetly  the  revelation  came  to  me  then ! 
My  own  heart  was  fully  prepared  to  receive  it. 
Through  months  I  had  been  transferring  the  wealth  of 
young,  hopeful  love,  which  craves  the  bliss  of  being 
shared,  from  the  sister  who  Avas  raised  so  far  above 
mortal  passion,  to  this  dear  semblance  of  her  former 
self.  My  face  must  have  expressed  my  happiness,  for 
when  I  stood  over  Mary,  as  she  sat,  and  turned  her 
sweet  face  up  toward  my  own,  she  gave  but  one  glance 
before  her  eyes  fell  to  hide  their  thought. 

I  kissed  her,  and  she  kissed  me  back  again,  shyly, 
timidly.  She  loved  me  ;  I  was  no  longer  mateless,  but 
drank  the  cup  of  joy  which  is  filled  for  youth.  What 
happy  children  we  were,  when,  late  enough  after  sun- 
set, we  strolled  back  to  the  house  and  went  to  receive 
the  paternal  blessing ! 

I  believe  that  hour  when  our  betrothal  was  known 
was  the  best  which  had  blessed  the  household  since  the 
shadow  descended  upon  it. 

In  June  we  were  married ;  there  was  no  excuse  for 
delay,  and  all  the  friends  expressed  themselves  urgent 
to  have  the  matter  settled.  We  went,  on  our  wedding- 
tour,  to  see  my  mother,  with  whom  we  had  a  long,  de- 
lightful visit.  Three  years  have  passed  since  then,  and 
in  that  time  there  have  been  changes — some  of  them  very 
sad.  Mr.  Argyll  died  about  two  years  since,  his  health 
never  rallying  from  the  shock  which  it  received  during 
those  trying  times.  Since  then,  we  have  resided  in  the 


808  THE    DEAD   LETTER. 

old  mansion,  and  Eleanor  lives  with  us.  She  is  a  nol>le 
woman — one  of  Christ's  anointed,  who  puts  a^ide  her 
own  sorrow,  to  minister  to  the  grid's  and  ftoflbringfl  of 
others.  Both  Mary  and  myself  defer  a  great  deal  to 
her  judgment,  which  is  calm  and  clear,  never  clouded 
by  passion,  as  ours  will  sometimes  be.  We  feel  as  if 
nothing  evil  could  live  where  Eleanor  is;  she  is  the 
light  and  blessing  of  our  household. 

The  saddest  affliction  which  has  fallen  upon  u<  >inee 
the  loss  of  our  father,  is  the  deatli  of  Mr.  Hurt  on. 
Alas!  he  has  fallen  a  victim,  at  last,  to  the  relentless 
pursuit  of  enemies  which  his  course  in  life  raised  up 
about  him.  The  wicked  feared  him,  and  compassed 
his  destruction.  Whether  he  was  murdered  by  some 
one  whom  he  had  detected  in  <_:uilt,  or  l>v  some  one 
who  feared  the  nmMiirations  he  was  making,  is  not 
known;  he  died  of  poison  administered  to  him  in  his 
fond.  It  wrin<_^  my  heart  to  think  that  irreat  and  good 
soul  is  no  more  of  this  world,  lie  was  so  active,  so 
powerful,  of  such  a  Denial  temperament,  it  is  hard  to 
ive  him  dead.  We  all  loved  him  so  much!  Oh, 
if  we  e..tild  di-cn ver  the  cowardly  a*<as>iii  !  Sometimes 
I  \\nndcr  if  it  may  not  have  been  the  man  uhom  lic- 
ence 80  mercile-  i.  <Jod  knows — I  do  not. 
;ipts  upon  hi<  life  wen-  many  times  made,  luit  his 
acute  perceptions  had  always,  hitherto,  \\arned  him  of 
danger. 

Lcnore  is  with  IK.     We   shall    keep  her  until 
lover  comes  in  the  future  to  rob  us  of  her.     Sho  is  a 
rare  child — almost  a  woman  now — as  talented  as  her 
fitlier,  and  exceedingly  lovely.      At  present  -he  i-  ,,v.-r- 
wlieltned  with  grief,  and    clings  to  Kleaimr,  who  is   her 
best  comforter.     In  our  love  for  her  we  try  to 
some  of  the  debt  wo  owe  her  father. 

THE    END. 


Thii  book  U  DUE  on  the  latt 
date  ttamped  below. 


II 


: 
1995 

DUE  2  MS  FROM  MIL  KtCEIVE! 


REC'Dfltr 

lit 

ir 

,        ';-      ": 
lUL/V 

nynks  HlllW  liAit  RECEIVED; 

tWY-Tt-lb  1388,470     IMMIMBTOM  -AMD  INO.  to 


Victor  - 


129  The  dead  letter 
'66d 


PS 

3129 

V66d 


3  1158  00081    0316 


